The Great Divide
by ScintillatingTart
Summary: For this was not a war fought by sense and logic; this was a war fought by starving men in holes in the ground, fighting for ideals that no longer made any sense. (Harry/Ruth, rated M for sex, violence, war, etc.)
1. Chapter 1

I don't own Spooks. This is a given.

This story is a historical AU. Feel free to point and laugh. We can all do that. It is rated M because of sex, violence, war, etc.

The Great Divide  
by ScintillatingTart

I:

* * *

June 1916  
France  
a few miles from the Trenches

* * *

For a night that was sweltering, the breeze was startlingly cool. Insects chirped, birds still chattered in the distance, and for one sick, twisted moment, Lieutenant General Henry James Pearce believed that things might be normal again someday. No more reports of mass casualties, no more endless battles in the trenches. He took a deep breath, then coughed; the mustard gas from the battlefield had begun to drift with the cold wind. It would dissipate with time, but that was no consolation for the men who breathed it day after day, wishing for death.

He had been one of those men up until a week before, when General Shaw had been killed in action. He had escaped the trenches to fall back amongst the plotters and the staff, shouting at the top of his scorched lungs that their words and actions made no sense when staring down the barrel of a gun. His promotion to full General was just around the corner, but he took no pride in it. In any of the madness.

For this was not a war fought by sense and logic; this was a war fought by starving men in holes in the ground, fighting for ideals that no longer made any sense. Imperialism and monarchy seemed the least of their worries now, when old and young died together – and for what? For what, indeed.

Juliet Shaw came out of her tent and lit a cigarette. The embers illuminated her face just enough that he could see her eyes, haunted and older than she seemed to be. She had been the first nurse on the scene of her husband's death, and Harry had heard her screams pierce the air in a way he hoped never to hear again. They had not entirely been happy, Juliet and Philip, but now their children had no father, and their mother would return to England just as broken and shell-shocked as any soldier. She was a far cry from the woman he had desired and taken to his bed in India now; Juliet was withdrawing from the world, the horrors, around them with alarming alacrity.

Harry watched her for a few moments, hoping that she would return to her tent and her quiet vigil. Worrying about her was not high on his list of priorities – not when he needed to finish coordinating a prisoner exchange with Brigadier Carter. The Germans had already sent over a list of men they wished to see released from the prison encampment, and the Allies had responded in kind. The last communiqué had stated that they would be releasing one Princess Sofia Viktoria of Greece and Denmark and her three children along with a Scottish Earl, an English Duke, and an American photographer and journalist who had been presumed dead months before. Harry had nothing of value to offer the esteemed former prisoners but food, a bit of wine, and camp beds to sleep upon, but he had no doubt that they would be a step up from what they had been enduring.

He dropped his cigarette into the dirt and ground it into nothingness. Juliet looked over at him, smiled, and waved a little bit. He wished that he felt enough to do the same, but by the end of his third day in charge, Harry was bitter, exhausted, and dying to be back in London where the sooty fog at least had the decency to be civil and kill you over time. His lips twitched into a mirthless smile before he ducked back into his sleeping tent. Brigadier Adam Carter was still going over his notes, trying to see if the food supplies would stretch for several more weeks before they could send their esteemed guests back toward the coast, and to the relative safety of England on the far side of the Channel.

"The rumor is that the woman has been sleeping with the Commandant," Carter said mildly. "And that at least one of her children is his." He signed and dated one of the papers, then looked up. "And I wonder if they would use her against us."

Harry sank into his chair and sighed. "To what end, Carter?" he asked. "To further allow morale to disintegrate into dust? Because the way I see it, by the time this war is over, we will all be lucky to be alive. The woman was likely living in an area occupied by the Germans. The absence of her husband indicates to me that he was quite likely murdered. If she was sleeping with the Commandant, it was an act of sheer desperation." He ran his hands through his sparse blonde hair and muttered, "Women do not have the luxury of carrying weaponry upon their person in order to protect themselves. With the exception of Lady Shaw and her surgical implements," he amended.

"That is true enough, Sir," Carter amended. "Our supplies will stretch until we can send them to the Red Cross. The Germans were very specific in saying that our men – and ladies – are all in excellent health. They expect their men to be sent back to them in the same condition. Which is not an issue."

"I should certainly hope not," Harry muttered. "You will lead the team conducting the exchange. There must not be any mistakes, Carter. Do you understand?"

Carter nodded. "I will take Fiona with the team," he said, referring to his wife. "That way, if there are injuries – even minor ones – they might be attended to immediately."

Harry nodded. He didn't really care for the Red Cross allowing wives of soldiers and officers onto the battlefield and into the camps, but he knew that small bits of morale-boosting and small manners of comfort were necessary to keep his troops from going mad. He had long ago given up his rights as a husband and a father, having divorced Jane in 1903 and having Catherine and Graham shun him because of it. The one woman who he had held in regard since then – the love of his life, if truth be told – had long ago wed another man. So he had become an angry, bitter man with a love of the fight. But the fight did not love him back.

His knee ached from where the shrapnel still lingered within the bone. He had been sent home over a year before to recuperate from the surgery that could have destroyed him, and he had worked harder than he had ever worked in his life to be allowed to go back to the front lines. Some of his men had shaken their heads and whispered amongst themselves that General Pearce had a death wish. But they did not understand; he had nothing left to give but loyalty, fealty, and the depths of his despair. So he limped onward, upward, trudging higher and higher up the ladder until he felt the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

"If there's nothing else, Sir," Carter said, "the exchange will take place at nine in the morning, after the sun is high enough to give full light."

Harry nodded and said, "Very well, Brigadier. Dismissed."

Carter saluted and retreated. Harry knew he would carry a story of a disillusioned, indifferent man back to the men under his command. But he could not seem to care.

* * *

March 3, 1905  
London  
Buckingham Palace

* * *

Harry took a swig of scotch and laughed at the comical look of distaste his boyhood friend Bertie – now King Edward VII – made. Bertie had always cared for the French liquors… cognac, brandy, wine… and sod the deliciousness of a good peaty whiskey. "Hardly the face one makes if they're glad to see a friend," Harry pointed out, regrouping his cards and strategizing. It would hardly do to beat the King more than once or twice when the stakes were so ruinously high. And with only having been back in the country for a few days, it would not do to anger a friend, either… not when he could produce such wonderful jewels for His Majesty as was required. The Indian subcontinent was ripe for the picking, and Harry had found beautiful women and jewels aplenty to soothe the wounds of his divorce.

"I suppose you'll be staying for the Season?" the King inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"My orders are for Kenya next," Harry commented dryly. "But I was rather hoping to at least find a willing woman for a time."

"Avoid the debutantes, unless you're actively seeking a wife," his friend warned sagely. "I can put you on a path to several ladies of good standing who would be ever so glad to warm your bed for you. Too bad the Duchess of Whiting passed a few months ago – she was practically gagging for it."

Harry's secretly jovial smile returned. "Speaking of gagging for it… Lady Juliet Shaw is quite something else. Thank you for the letter of introduction. General Shaw probably doesn't see it in the same light, however…"

The King laughed and dropped a pair of diamond and gold cufflinks into the pot. "Juliet is rather something else," he said. "And easy on the eyes, I daresay." His conviviality dimmed a bit and he said, "My wife has been steering the ugliest possible women into my path, hoping I'll take a mistress she might control. I think I might spite her by going into mourning for the lovely Duchess of Whiting – Alexandra has always been cross with me about having taken her."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Bertie watched Harry dump a pile of loose gems into the center of the table, then he admitted, "There was a child. A girl. She will be coming out this Season. There is no way of knowing if the girl is mine or Whiting's. And Alex… was offended. Affronted. She still is."

Suddenly, there was a bitter taste in Harry's mouth; blood from biting his tongue from lashing out at his old friend for his utter irresponsibility. "You cared for the mother, then?" he finally said.

Abruptly, he was all regality again. "It doesn't matter if I cared for Elisabeth or not," the King snapped. He played his hand and waited for Harry to do the same. "I have been blackmailed into forcing Whiting's promotion up the Naval ranks straight into the Admiralty – all because I don't know if that girl is mine! You tell me, Harry, how that looks."

Harry played his hand and sighed in relief when the King took everything. "It looks as though you've made a mistake – as we all do from time to time," he said in soft, even tones that he hoped did not sound confrontational. It was not his place. They were only meant to be having a friendly game, after all. Harry stifled a yawn and said, "It is getting quite late, and I am due for maneuvers in the morning."

"Nonsense," Bertie said, his sudden mood swing gone as quickly as it had begun. "One more hand – give me a chance to win that prize ruby you've kept tucked away all night, Pearce."

Harry bit back an annoyed retort, but reminded himself that the most precious lapis was safely back at the townhouse, and he had more than enough to lose in the meanwhile.

And he settled in for an even longer night of cards.

* * *

June 1916  
France  
Chateau Antoinette  
German occupied lines

* * *

She cuddled her youngest daughter close, giving her a few drops of canned milk from a soaked rag. There was not enough food to feed the soldiers, let alone her children. Not for the first time, she cursed her husband's memory, wondering why he had insisted on France for their home instead of somewhere pleasant in Greece or even in Denmark with his uncle and aunt. She felt ill to think that if they had only been there at the beginning of the War, he would still be alive.

But no. He had been defiant when the Commandant had laid hands upon her, had praised her linguistic skills, her willingness to translate in order to keep her family safe. She had watched in absolute horror as the Commandant had shot her husband between the eyes. And ever since, she had done whatever it had taken to keep her children safe; even adding a wee daughter to the brood to make three. She could not fault her youngest the circumstances of her birth, nor could she find it in her heart to turn away from the child and leave her to die as the unwanted result of repeated assault by the German man who commanded the troops that occupied her home.

She was still young: she had time to recover her dignity after the war ended. Twenty and nine, she was, and she already felt as though she'd lived so many more years than that. And tomorrow would begin a new day, a new chapter in her life.

She and her children would be given over to the British in exchange for the Commandant's own brother, a Grand Duke of some German principality who her father had briefly thought to marry her off to so many years before. But they would be free again.

Free to go home.

She had missed Britain for so long, it actually brought tears to her eyes to think of her father's holdings in the Lowlands of Scotland. Of the house in London and of a life she never had the chance to live.

For George had never been her love. He had been her husband, yes, but her heart still burned, still yearned, for a man she had never been allowed to marry. A man who had asked for her hand and been revoked unequivocally by her father. A man who had vowed that he would take no wife but her till the end of his days; a man who had given her a chain of the finest gold and pearls from India itself to pledge his troth and his love.

A man she did not know whether or not he still drew breath.

She closed her eyes and continued rocking Elena to sleep, wishing she could do anything to quell the baby's hunger. Wishing she had not listened to her father. Wishing that she had had the courage to elope with her love. Wishing that so many things in her life had been different.

She fell asleep to the sound of the cock's crow.


	2. Chapter 2

II:

* * *

June 1916  
France  
neutral meeting place

* * *

The men in the back of the hay cart eyed her with suspicion. She could not blame them for a moment; after all, she had taken the enemy into her bed and into her person. What they did not understand was that there had been many times when she had calmed their captor from his fits of fury, and in those moments of darkness, he had been ready to execute them – future use be damned. She had hidden bruises and marks on her body, had wished them good morning and good night with all the pleasantness she could muster before she became his property again.

She supposed, in some small part, he was desecrating the political monarchy in some fashion, by harming her. But in the end, they were only people in a mad, mad world, acting on instinct and in such bad fashion.

She looked down at Elena, then over at Henry and Marie; all three were quiet, listless, exhausted. The two elder children were just as hungry as the baby, but they knew that to ask for food was to be locked away from everyone… and so they suffered in silence. And Ruth knew they blamed her. As she was their mother, and meant to care for them, of course they blamed her. She blamed herself.

"Not long now," she promised them softly.

"Mama, will we ever go home again?" Henry asked, his eyes wide as if he was scared to leave.

"The chateau isn't our home anymore," she murmured. "The bad men have taken it away, my love, and we cannot go back."

Marie looked startled, then whispered, "But where will we live?"

"Grandfather's house," Ruth said automatically. "And when he tires of having us, we shall go to Copenhagen and see your great-aunt and great-uncle."

"Is Copaheegan far away?" Marie asked with all the innocence of a four year old.

"It is," her mother replied. "But they will be ever so happy to see you all safe and well."

"But we aren't either," Henry said very quietly.

"Laddie, you'd best listen to your mammy, y'ken?" one of the men said. "She's going to take ye somewhere safe where there are blankets and food and where yer loved. She's done her best."

Ruth looked at him, gratefully. "Thank you," she whispered.

He shrugged. "We cannae pick our fates, lass. You became a princess, and I lost me arm." He held up the stump and smiled at her with a wink. "Just have to make the best of it, aye?"

"Aye," she agreed, nodding her head.

The American remained sullen and silent, but the Duke peered through his binoculars and announced, "Our people are coming."

She felt a knot of anxiety, fear, tie up in her belly. So much could still go wrong…

The transport truck came to a stop about twenty meters away, and a man alit from the passenger side of the cabin. He shouted over, "We have the prisoners that were requested."

Ruth translated automatically; it earned her another resentful glare from the American, but a grateful smile from both the Scot and the Duke. She translated the terms and conditions between the two opposing camps, and the exchanges began to take place. The American was first, and a German man of rank. It continued on, until only Ruth, Elena, and the Grand Duke remained.

She took the first few steps, then felt someone tug on her to stop her. Elena was lifted from her arms by one of the other officers and she fought back, clawing, screaming, hissing, begging, cursing – but she could not get a grip on the small baby without hurting her.

"This child is the child of –"

"She is my child!" Ruth shouted. "Mine! You cannot have her – you cannot take her from me –"

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out in the clearing. The English officer was holding a gun to the Grand Duke's head. "Give her the baby, or he dies," he said simply and succinctly. "Don't let your stupidity cloud your judgment, mate."

Ruth lunged at the German officer and grabbed Elena from his arms, running as though all the hounds of hell were on her heels. She sank to the grass at the feet of the English officer, sobbing. He released the Grand Duke, who raced across the clearing.

"Come now," the officer said gently. "Your Highness, we must go – it isn't safe. May I hold her?"

Ruth shook her head and held the baby closer. "No… please no," she whispered. "You can't take her from me."

"Fiona," he called out, and a woman hopped out of the back of the truck. "If Fiona takes her and makes sure she's all right, will you come along?"

The woman called Fiona knelt down in the grass and murmured, "I promise you may hold her if you'll let me make sure she's all right."

Ruth looked up at the woman's kind face and nodded.

"Come on," Fiona insisted gently. The officer hauled her up to her feet and propelled her toward the truck.

"We don't have much time if they decide to double back," the officer said. "We need to get back to camp as soon as possible. The General is waiting."

"Adam, show some bloody kindness," Fiona hissed. "She almost had her child taken away from her."

"We don't have the time or luxury of showing kindness right now," the man called Adam said gruffly. He helped Ruth, then Fiona up into the back of the truck. "We need to leave now."

Fiona smiled gently as they got underway. "I'm sorry about my husband – he's all business today," she apologized softly. "May I see your baby, Your Highness?"

"Elena," Ruth said softly. "Her name is Elena."

"That's a lovely name," Fiona said gently, taking the baby into her arms. "Oh, aren't you a precious little girl?" she murmured. Ruth watched her like a hawk, then relaxed when the nurse settled the small bundle back into her arms. "She's very small – I'll have to weigh her properly when we get back to camp."

"She was three weeks early," Ruth said softly. "And we've not had milk."

"The first thing we'll do when we get to camp is make sure the children are fed properly," Fiona promised. "The General is adamant that you all be treated well." The woman smiled over at Henry and Marie. "And I have a bit of candy in my tent I don't mind sharing with you two. My son is about your age," she added for Marie's benefit. "He loves lemon candies, so I keep them with me always."

"Mama, can we?" Marie asked very quietly.

Ruth nodded. "Miss Fiona –"

"Mrs. Carter," Fiona corrected gently, "or just Fiona."

Ruth licked her lips and began again. "Mrs. Carter will take good care of you two," she promised softly. "But you must behave for her."

"We will," Henry said. "I'll watch Marie."

"And you," Fiona said, her voice wavering, "you must eat something and rest – you've been through a terrible lot today already. Did you sleep last night?"

Ruth shook her head and sighed softly. "I put the children to bed and the Commandant…" She hesitated, peering furtively around the truck. The men were still listening, so she stopped speaking. "I slept for a while at dawn."

"Well, that certainly won't do," Fiona said firmly. "I'm going to check you over and then you will eat and rest, Your Highness. This is non-negotiable."

"All right," Ruth agreed very softly as the truck shuddered to a halt. Her children were the first to scramble for purchase to look through the holes in the canvas where it wasn't tied down, and Fiona waited patiently for her husband to come around and untie the canvas flaps. She greeted him with a kiss, and Ruth glanced away, giving them their privacy.

"The General is on his way," Carter said. "If you don't mind, Your Highness, I'll present the officers to him first –"

"No, that's perfectly all right," she assured him. "They are far more important than I am." She thought about the title, the money that she supposedly had, and how it meant nothing at all. Everything her father had fought so hard for her to have meant absolutely nothing now.

It was nearly a quarter of an hour before the flap lifted again, and she heard a voice she thought never to hear again. "Your Highness, we've arranged breakfast for you and the children."

She turned, startled, and breathed, "Harry."

* * *

April 7, 1905  
London  
Altendon House

* * *

It didn't matter one tiny bit that her godparents were the King and Queen: Ruth Evershed, Countess Lumbley, did not find herself making friends amongst the flighty marriage seekers who thought that merely a pretty frock and some jewels were an adequate substitute for education. Maybe men liked women who were stupid and inane, but Ruth could not picture herself ever being one of those women. She barely knew how to dance. God forbid her father know, though, as he was hell-bent on securing her place in society and a successful marriage – successful meaning money, title, and preferably far away – within a Season.

She sipped her punch and hovered near the doors to the terrace, certain that she might be forced to run at any moment if anyone actually paid her attention.

And, as a complete aside, she suddenly noticed the absence of her chaperone – Aunt Connie, her father's only sister, was flighty, but this was ridiculous! Her only duty was to keep unwanted suitors at bay. In Ruth's eyes, any suitors were potentially unwanted. In her father's eyes, any suitors were a potential threat mixed with a potential gold mine.

Her father was an opportunist. She was rather much more a pessimist.

A man in full dress regalia stopped beside her. She tried not to pay him any attention, but the lights of the electric chandelier all but glared off his buttons and medals, giving her rather a headache to look at him. He was entirely too close for comfort, so she edged closer to the door, inwardly cursing her aunt – in nine languages – for leaving her alone at all.

The man said in a low, conspiratorial voice, "I rather think that the point of a ball is missed entirely if the most beautiful woman in the room is not dancing." Her eyes flitted over him quickly, settling on holding his intense gaze as if they were equals, determined not to give in to the feeling of being threatened. He did not seem to be harmful; but then, vile seducers rarely did, did they?

"I am a far cry from the most comely in the room," she said with a wry twitch of her lips. "Perhaps you've mistaken me – goodness knows how, Sir, for I am neither blonde nor am I dancing every dance – with Lady Rose DuBois." Her gaze flitted back out to the dance floor, where a waltz was currently being danced by the young lady in question, resplendent in a scarlet gown threaded with gold. There was a reason she was considered the success of the season: Rose was an empty-headed flirt who loved to dance.

His gaze followed hers, then retreated again. "No, Lady Ruth, I have not mistaken you for Lady Rose," the man said with a hint of revulsion in his tone. "How one could make such a comparison in good conscience, I shall never know."

"You know who I am, then?" she inquired, arching an eyebrow. "I'm afraid we are unequally matched, then, Sir, for I have no idea who you are."

"Lieutenant General Henry Pearce, my Lady," he introduced himself with a small bow from the waist, trying not to draw attention to himself. "I have paid your chaperone a rather large sum to speak with you alone. I hope you are not offended."

She bit back an abrupt shriek of laughter that bubbled up in her throat. "Oh, you must be entirely unsuitable if you had to bribe my Aunt Constance in order to press your suit," she gasped, trying to hold back the mirth so he would not be insulted. "And you are an Army man, after all – clearly not in the least suitable in my father's eyes…"

"Your father will see reason," he replied.

"I am terribly afraid that you do not know him as well as you presume, General Pearce," she said softly, her amusement dying as abruptly as it had come. "He will take all offense with anyone who is not a Navy man; your pursuit may as well end now."

"I'd intended to ask for the next dance –"

"I cannot dance with any degree of success, Sir," Ruth admitted softly. "We would both be quite embarrassed if I accepted your offer. It is much safer to not even attempt such an exercise."

"All young ladies are taught to dance," he said dismissively.

"Yes, and I have been taught," she fired back. "But I am afraid that my brain and my feet do not understand the mechanics of dancing. I am as likely to trip and fall as I am to actually make a turn about the floor with a partner. I will spare us both the mortification."

He gritted his teeth together and muttered, "You are as obstinate as any mule."

"I never!" Ruth exclaimed in horror. "How dare you –"

"The next time I offer you a dance, Countess," he said, "you will accept."

"I will do no such thing!" she huffed. "I hope you will set your sights on someone a bit more worthy a target for your appetites, Sir."

He leaned in a bit closer, still within the bounds of propriety to any of the onlookers, and murmured in fluid French, "Our appetites are well matched, I should think. Have you ever wondered what it is like to kiss a man who is more than willing to kiss you, my dove?"

She pondered the words for a moment, but by the time she had a reply for him, he was gone – melted into the crowd of people. She felt weak, dizzy, and suddenly realized what novels meant when they described the flush of love.

She fanned herself furiously and reminded herself just how little she desired to submit to her father's wishes for her to marry. But upon seeing General Pearce dancing with Lady Rose, a sick feeling erupted in her belly. She burst outside to breathe and pretend that she was not swayed by the man.


	3. Chapter 3

III:

* * *

 _29 July, 1905_

 _My Dearest Harry;_

 _This letter will take months to reach you in Kenya, if it ever does. I love you, so much more than I can ever say, and certainly I miss you with all of my heart. It is with the sadness of my heart to inform you that my father has prevailed upon himself to pick a husband for me. My wedding is in less than a fortnight now, and I wish that I had followed you to Kenya instead of holding back in fear of the unknown, of losing everything and of the possibility of being unhappy. For now… I know I shall be unhappy for the rest of my days without you. I regret thinking that I would have a day in the future when I could hold you and call you "husband", for it is not to be._

 _My heart will beat only for you, Harry. Please remember me fondly; I shall remember you as the only true love I will know._

 _Ever yours (forever into eternity, my love),  
Your Ruth_

* * *

June 1916  
France  
a few miles from the Trenches  
British base camp

* * *

She was undeniably older, hardened, the lines of hard life and of settling for second best etched into her skin, but she was there and she was still Ruth. But he could not allow himself to show weakness or emotion – though his heart pounded alarmingly in his chest – to anyone. He must remain in control of himself; self-control, self-denial.

Harry took a deep breath and said, "I've made arrangements for you and your children to take Lady Shaw's tent. She will be moving back to the Red Cross encampment until the next convoy leaves for the coast." He did not, could not meet her gaze; her eyes were the same piercing blue he remembered, that he had committed to memory, but they were glazed, dead inside, without the sparkle of life that had made her irresistible to him.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"Mama, I'm hungry," Marie said softly.

"Well," Harry said, turning his attention to the tiny girl with her mother's huge blue eyes and curly black hair, "that is a terrible affliction, Your Highness."

"I'm not a highness," the little girl said. "I'm just Marie."

He tied back the canvas and said, "Well, Marie, shall I help you down so we might take you to eat some breakfast?"

"Is there toast?" the boy asked.

"There is," Harry said. "What is your name, young sir?"

"Henry," the boy responded automatically. "What's yours?"

He blinked and glanced at Ruth, startled. "My name is Henry, but you must call me Harry," he finally said. "May I help you down as well, Henry?"

"Please," the boy said. "I don't want to fall down."

Ruth stood up, clutching the baby tightly in her arms. "General Pearce," she said, "could you please help us all down from the truck? We are all very grateful that you and your men are willing to share your provisions with us –"

He helped the children down from the bed of the truck, and then gestured for Ruth to pass the baby to him. She hesitated, a dark shadow crossing her face, nervousness and outright fright in her demeanor, like a rabbit caught out in the middle of the road. "Your Highness," Harry said gently, giving her deference though it pained him to think she had gained such a title by marriage to a man other than himself, "I cannot lift you down with the baby in your arms. It is far too awkward of a maneuver. Allow me to hold your child in one arm and assist you with the other. I will not place your wee lass or lad in any danger."

"The bad men tried to take Elena from Mama," Henry spoke up from behind him. "She's too scared to let her go."

No wonder she was so frightened; Harry felt anger and shame wash over him. "Ruth," he said very softly, offering her his hand, "I would never take her from you. Not your little girl. Please let me help you."

"She needs milk," Ruth murmured. "Mine's dried up –"

"She will get all the tinned milk she can drink," he promised. "Please let me help."

She edged closer, still nervously showing her fear – Harry could almost smell it radiating off of her in waves, and he could not stand that he was the current cause of her pain. And then Ruth nodded, pressing the small baby into his hands. "Be gentle," she warned.

He gazed down at the baby, unsurprised to see her staring back up at him, her little rosebud mouth twitching as she tried to decide whether or not to cry. "Hello, my dear," he said softly. "You'll have your mum back in no time, love." Ruth sat down on the edge of the gate, using gravity to slide down till her feet were on the ground, Harry steadying her as she landed. He passed the baby back to her and tried to ignore how it felt to be so close to her again. "Ruth –"

"Sofia," she corrected softly. "I took Sofia Viktoria as my name when I converted to Orthodoxy before I was married."

"You will always be Ruth to me," he said, exhaling heavily. "Forgive me – that was –"

She smiled wanly, and murmured, "Breakfast, then?"

He watched her take Marie's hand with a bravado she did not necessarily feel, and observed how Henry immediately fell to his mother's side for protection. And Harry frowned, knowing that it must have been hell for them in captivity. He did not know the ages of the children, but he did know that children that obeyed their mother with nary a word spoken had to have been through an experience most terrible. "Come with me," he instructed gently, the knowledge that if he attempted to touch Ruth she would shy away from him like a nervous mare at the forefront of his mind.

He needed to take great care here. She was a woman far above his station now – not that it had not been so when he had wooed and spoiled her – and she had far more to lose. He was still the same salty, gruff man he had been before – maybe more so without her clever rejoinders and lovely smile to calm him.

She wore no smile now; only a cloak of nervous fear that he wished to god he could brush away.

He remembered a time when she had looked at him with anticipation and delight, with all the love that he had thought never to see in another human being, and the thought that someone had had the gall to break his lovely Ruth made him ill. Despite everything, despite her not coming to Kenya, despite the letter, despite… everything… he loved her with a singular devotion that startled even him. She was everything to him, and he fought to protect her even though she had not been his to protect.

Perhaps he was a broken old man now, set in his ways and – and she had changed, as well. But he still adored her as though the sun shone from her. "I will lead the way," Harry said in as gentle a tone as he could manage, guiding them toward his tent.

* * *

1 July, 1905  
London  
Rosewood Townhouse

* * *

He knew that Ruth Evershed was a defiant woman who thought for herself, but Harry had not expected her to arrive on his doorstep in the middle of the night, chin raised in that stubborn way of hers, and all of the reasons why he could not possibly love her tumbling from her lips. Nor had he expected her to give in when he had leaned in and kissed her ever so gently upon those lips, still spewing their vicious lies.

For he was very much in love with her; perhaps he had been even from the moment he'd espied her across the room at Court. When she had tripped on her train – much to her aunt's general mortification – and had almost landed at the feet of the King and Queen, he had been just as horrified as everyone else, but the ease and grace with which she had picked herself up and carried on as if nothing had happened spoke to him in dulcet tones rich as her voice had chanced to be to his ears.

And now, looking up at her from his vantage point between her thighs, he thought he had no resistance left to her siren's call. "Ruth," he murmured softly against the skin of her inner thigh, "my Ruth…"

Her breathing was shaky, her body still convulsing reflexively as she came down from the heights of ecstasy that only a good woman could reach. He stroked behind her knee, earning a breathless giggle and a reflexive jerk of her leg. "My Harry," she murmured, reaching down with her delicate, small hand and ruffling his hair.

"I doubt you came for this," he said with a soft sigh. "And you are not yet completely ruined – you may yet leave with your reputation intact."

"I came," Ruth said softly, the words a steady rush of syllables, "in order to ascertain if your affections were indeed as genuine as you were intimating. My reputation will hardly be tarnished by –"

"Servants whisper," he commented wryly. "And tongues wag." He leaned back in, breathing deeply of the perfumed musk that was so very her, and allowed his tongue to do just that. She jumped and squeaked in surprise. "Your reputation must remain spotless, else everyone thinks me to be an utter cad…"

"I am very sorry to have to inform you, Harry, but your reputation as a rogue, a ladies' man, and an absolutely dashing cad precedes you," Ruth exhaled. "And, yet, you are the only man who has paid me any attention at all during this Season, and I feel the need to –"

"You should not be so callous as to give away your womanhood to the first man to say that he loves you!" Harry protested indignantly.

"I am not, you infuriating man!" she interrupted. "I am giving it freely to the man I believe that I love most desperately, despite our… being unable to see eye to eye on some matters. I feel the need to say that I believe myself to be most deeply in love with you, and it was not because of your pretty words last eve at the Fosters' ball." She inhaled and exhaled, her corset rising and falling, blocking her torso from his view. "And I would not give you anything but what would be your right as my husband."

"And what if my intentions were not to wed you, my Lady?" Harry asked with a raised brow. She baffled him; there had been no sign before of her having any affection for him or being affected by any of his demonstrations of intimacy in any way but the negative. And now she was speaking of marriage? True, he had not been seeking marriage initially, but Ruth had charmed him, bewitched him, and now he was holding his breath, praying to an unforgiving god that she might just feel the same about him. It was positively ridiculous for a fifty-one year old man to be so besotted with someone who was not even twenty! And yet…

"Then I would change your mind," Ruth said confidently, "by bedding you."

He jerked back and roared with laughter. "Ruth… my dearest, most lovely Ruth," he finally gasped, "a virgin is hardly likely to change the mind of a libertine."

"I already have," she said gently, sitting up and tucking her legs beneath her primly. "This is not a hypothetical discussion, Harry. I have already declared my intentions that we should live as husband and wife – you are keen, yes?"

"I cannot believe we are having this discussion while you are half naked in my bed," he huffed, feeling a bit affronted that she had beat him so soundly to the chase.

"It is entirely your fault that I am half naked," she pointed out, a tiny smirk on her lips.

"No," he contradicted, "that blame must fall entirely upon your shoulders, Ruth, for you have bewitched my senses and –"

"Nonsense," she responded, her surety beginning to fray. He could see her confidence start to crumble, and the insecurity settling back in around her shoulders like a cloak. "Do you mean to say that you do not care for me in that way? That I am… not pleasing to you?"

"You are very pleasing to me, Ruth," Harry assured her, retreating from the bed and beginning to pace. "But your father will run me through with his cutlass should I touch you –"

"My father will see reason," she declared angrily. "You are a good man, a kind man –"

Harry laughed in utter incredulity. "I suppose no one has told you of my failings then – I am divorced, and my wife left me on grounds of my infidelity… numerous times infidelity. I have a reputation in the ranks –"

"I have heard all of those things," she said, dismissing them with a wave of her hand. "And they do not affect my opinion of you. They are not what I have seen in you… nor what I would continue to see." She leaned forward on her knees, imploring him – but what she did not realize was that he had a perfect view down the valley of her breasts that made the blood rush anywhere but to his head.

He took a deep, steadying breath, and tore his gaze away. "I am already a man much aged, Ruth…"

"I know this," she said softly. "Again, it does not affect the way that I feel for you."

"It should," Harry said firmly. "It is likely that I will die far before you will –"

"Yes, but I will have loved, and so very deeply," she shot back. "You do not wish to marry me at all, I should think, the way that you are going on –"

That tweaked a nerve; he had never felt this way, so deeply, so strongly for another person in his life. His marriage to Jane had been arranged by their parents – mainly to calm his womanizing ways, picked up and encouraged by his fellow officers and his friends – so he had never really cared for her beyond the fact that she was pleasantly easy on the eyes and quite willing in his bed. He had not felt much in regard to his children aside from what he thought might be a faintly patronizing paternal affection. But this…

Ruth was beneath his skin, making him itch with the desire to claim her, to keep her, to learn every facet of her body and soul… and, oddly, he wanted to protect her, to nurture her, to adore her. Was this the mythical 'love' that was said to exist in poetry and song? Was this the sacrifice he was meant to endure? He breathed deeply, unsure of himself, of his actions, in this new and terrifying landscape of emotion, and he ran his hands through his hair, making it stand wildly on end in the candlelight.

And finally, he said, "I am god's most selfish creature, my lady – my Ruth… for I can think of no better pleasure than taking you as my bride."

"But you will not ask me to be yours?" she challenged softly.

"I don't have the words to ask," he exhaled weakly, sinking into his armchair and watching her warily like a trapped animal. "My fondest desire is to wake up with you every morning and to hold you in my arms every evening – to nurse you when you are ill, and to give you everything your heart desires."

She smiled a little and murmured, "That sounds enough like asking. And I accept your terms, General Pearce. We have an understanding now – and Papa will see reason if you have taken me as yours when you tell him of our engagement."

"Your Papa will skewer me," he commented dryly.

"Then we shall elope," Ruth murmured. "And I will go to Kenya with you –"

"Kenya is no place for you," he said sharply.

"A wife's place is with her husband," she said. "It is why we make vows in a marriage, Harry. We pledge to face the world together, come good, come bad, come what may."

He exhaled and closed his eyes. He vaguely remembered pledging all of those things to Jane, then breaking all of his marriage vows within the next few months. He had been a coward and a man dispossessed of the maturity needed to sustain a marriage; he still entertained doubts about his ability to be what Ruth expected him to be. "I will fail you," he said very quietly. "I am not cut from a good bolt of cloth, my Ruth –"

"And I am far too stubborn and educated for a woman," Ruth countered gently. "We will push one another and make one another angry, but there will always be love between us, Harry." She took a deep breath and murmured, "Come to bed, if only to hold me and tell me that all will be well. Even if it is a lie."

His angels warred with his demons, and he could not help himself in the end.


	4. Chapter 4

IV:

* * *

28 March, 1906  
Copenhagen, Denmark  
Sorgenfri Palace

* * *

Between contractions, Ruth was up and walking around, though the struggle was becoming very real as she leaned heavily upon her lady's maid for support. She had been in labor for nearly twenty-four hours, and the stubborn child – goodness only knew whether it had inherited that from Harry or from Ruth – wasn't budging.

Her knees went weak when the next contraction hit, and she nearly fainted from the pain. The midwife and her maid barely kept her off the ground. "Your Highness, we may have need of the doctor," the midwife said softly, trying to keep Ruth focused as they returned her to bed. "Let me check on the wee one –"

"No doctor," Ruth panted. "I can – I can do this," she whimpered.

Bita glanced worriedly at the midwife. "Shall I go call for –"

The midwife shook her head. "Not yet – her waters have only just broken an hour ago," she said softly. "There is still time."

Ruth felt as though she was being punished for all of her sins; for making love to Harry with no thought of the future, with no realization that their dreams would be shattered, for loving a man who was not her husband, for touching the face of god and begging for mercy. The pains were incredible, and she was afraid – for herself and the child – that she might not live through the birth. And what then? Would George raise the baby as his own without her to be there to guide him? He had known she was with child when they had wed; she had confessed everything, and he had still taken her into his life. But if she wasn't there…

The midwife rolled her onto her side and gently put several pillows between her knees. "Just try to breathe, Your Highness," she urged. "The baby will come soon enough."

Ruth fell into a delirious haze, following instructions when she could, fighting tooth and nail to stay awake and conscious of her surroundings. When the midwife told her to push, she did – small pushes, then larger ones, and then blessed relief – and a soft mewling cry of a newborn baby.

"It's a boy," Bita exclaimed excitedly. "M'lady, it's a healthy prince –"

Ruth began to cry; if only Harry could know his son was safely delivered… "Henry," she whispered between the sobs. "My son's name is Henry George Arthur."

They spelled it 'Henri' on his certificate of birth, but she stubbornly wrote it as Henry to her father in her letter announcing the new arrival. She did not pretend that her father did not know already; she would merely confirm his suspicions that she had, in point of fact, given her virginity to a man that he had despised. And freely given, it had been. She had ruined herself in the pursuit of love, and now she was not redeemable.

Princess Sofia Viktoria of Greece and Denmark had been safely delivered of a son. And he would not be known as a bastard.

* * *

15 July, 1905  
Thames Docks  
East End, London

* * *

"Harry!" Ruth cried, pushing through the crowd, trying to gain his attention before he boarded the ship. She wanted to tell him that she had booked herself passage to travel across Europe to Greece, then passage on a steamer that would take her from Athens, through the Suez Canal and around the coast to Mombassa. From there, she would have the accompaniment of a corps of British soldiers, under the direction of Brigadier General Garrett all the way to Kenya.

"Ruth – what on earth are you doing here?" he asked. "Suppose someone sees you –"

She smiled and brought his hand to her lips, kissing it tenderly. "I could not say goodbye without giving you some hope, my love," she murmured. "I leave for Kenya in October. I should arrive in your arms in February."

"How – did – Ruth, does your father know?" he asked anxiously. "He turned my request of your hand in marriage down flat – would you defy him and really come to me?"

"I would," she said with firm conviction. "And if I cannot, I will send you word by Brigadier General Garrett. But I will remain yours, Harry – I am yours, heart and soul, General Pearce. Always."

He swallowed hard and embraced her tightly. "My Ruth," he whispered. "I cannot wait to see you again – but the passage to inner Africa is dangerous and I…"

"I will be as safe as anyone can be," she promised him gently. She leaned in and kissed him with hesitant passion. "Think of me," she whispered.

"You will be in my thoughts every moment of every day," he vowed. The ship's great horn blared, and he pulled away. "I must –"

"Until we see one another again," she murmured, tangling their fingers together for a brief moment before he was gone.

* * *

28 July, 1905  
Mountain View Manor  
Scottish Lowlands  
15 miles from Stirling

* * *

Ruth sat in the silent darkness of the reading room. She had not pulled the blinds – for she had a terrible headache and she had been so very ill since the middle of the night – and the thought of turning on the electric lights made her feel worse. The doctor had been consulted the day before when such horrifying symptoms had worried her father to the point he was forced to call for her care.

The knowledge that she would give birth to a child during her travel to Kenya frightened her; her father's angry silence frightened her more. She had heard from her maid that he had spoken tersely, furiously, with his sister upon the telephone the evening before, blamed her for his daughter's ruin. And she had heard him shouting at the King himself on the line to Buckingham Palace. The threat of the King himself doing something to protect her was laughable.

It was not as if Ruth didn't know about her accident of birth. Upon her mother's deathbed, the secret – the horrible, awful secret – had come out. Her mother had wanted it to be Ruth's choice. The father she knew, who cared for her as his own, or the man who had fathered her as an accident of biology. Be the daughter of a Duke or the by-blow of a King.

The easiest choice was to do nothing and carry on.

Her hand drifted to her belly, pressing flat against the corset. Her child had been conceived in love, and though it would be a bastard in the eyes of the law, she knew that Harry would do right by them as soon as her feet hit Kenyan soil beside him. She would keep her plans; she would alight from Scotland instead of London, mayhaps, but…

Her father came into the room, throwing open the door. He gestured impatiently for the housekeeper to pull back the curtains. "Your godmother has secured one of her cousins to marry you," he snapped. "He seems not to care that you have gotten yourself in the family way, or ruined yourself."

"I am engaged," Ruth said stubbornly.

"I gave no consent to your… understanding with that man," Philip said in a clipped tone. "And the fact that he deflowered you – despite my rejection of his offer of his hand to yours in matrimony – just shows what a dirty, scheming, underhanded man he is."

Ruth lifted her chin defiantly. "I will marry Henry Pearce, Papa, no matter what you say," she uttered in quiet resolve.

Philip turned red in the face. "Your godfather has disowned his friendship with Pearce based upon this," he finally growled. "And they have consorted in much worse ways than this before. But for Pearce to touch you – to ruin you – it is beyond the very pale! If he ever comes near you again, he will be brought to the King's own table and handed his head on a silver platter. He will be stationed in Africa for the rest of his career – and you will comply with our wishes, or far worse will befall him."

Ruth hesitated, thinking furiously. She could not be the cause of Harry's ruin as well as her own. To invoke the wrath of a father was one thing; to invoke the ire of a King was deadly. She lowered her head, gazing at her feet in defeat. "Yes, Papa," she whispered.

"Your wedding will be in three week's time – "

"So quickly?" she said in alarm.

"No one must ever know your child was fathered by a libertine Army officer," her father said in a low, tight tone. "No one must ever know that you have followed in your mother's footsteps as a woman who would open her legs to anyone who would ask –"

"Do not cheapen my feelings or explain them away as a flight of sexual desire," she hissed, feeling anger deep in the pit of her stomach. "I will never love anyone as I do General Pearce – and I will never love the man you and the Queen have chosen for me to endure the rest of my life with!"

"Love has nothing to do with marriage," he challenged. "And you will learn that very quickly. Your fiancé will arrive from London tomorrow. You have probably met him in passing at the Palace this Season – Prince George of Greece."

She felt a sudden horror seize her heart. If he was of Greece, she would be forced to convert to the Orthodox Church before the marriage. She would lose her name, her identity, and she would never be allowed the merest possibility of the dissolution of the marriage. She would be trapped just as effectively as if she had stepped into a cage, a gilded cage, and she would never be able to –

"Papa, please," Ruth begged softly. "Do not do this – do not force me to do this –"

"It is not my choice," he said firmly. "You made this choice for yourself with your actions, Ruth. I will not endure more shame from you than I already have done."

Her lip wavered as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. "And if the King knew I was his child, would his answer still be the same? Marrying me off to a stranger?" she challenged angrily.

"Yes, Ruth," Philip said coldly. "The end would justify the means."

With that, he left, slamming the door behind him.

And her heart shattered in her chest, fragile as blown glass.

* * *

29 July 1905  
Mountain View Manor  
Scottish Lowlands  
15 miles from Stirling

* * *

Ruth finished the letter and sealed it before she could change her mind. Her heart was heavy, broken, and she wished she could allow herself to die rather than feel such terrible things. Her fiancé had arrived just before lunch, and she had caught herself looking down at him from the top of the staircase, comparing his dashing, athletic build and his full head of dark hair to Harry's slightly tubby, balding self. Harry's imperfections made him all the more desirable in her eyes.

Her maid dressed her for dinner and Ruth donned the stunning pearl and gold collar that Harry had given her in place of a ring. She would treasure it, wear it in defiance, flaunt her love of an unsuitable man whenever she could.

After dinner, George pulled her gently through to the sitting room, while her father absconded away and shut himself up in the study. "Ruth," George said softly, "I know the circumstances of –"

"I am in love with another man," she hissed.

"And I am in love with my brother's wife," he said softly. "So I have been charged with securing an appropriate bride and leaving Greece as soon as possible, else I do something to further embarrass my family." He smiled wryly. "Did you think this was easy for me, either? That I did not already have my affections leveled upon another?"

"It is unfair," she said very quietly.

He gently took her hand and slipped a large pink diamond ring upon it. "Ruth, I will never give you reason to doubt that you and your child will be cared for. We may not be in love, but I think we will be good friends and we will make a family, despite… everything."

She closed her eyes and whispered, "I can never love you like I love him."

"I would not ask you to try."

She inhaled deeply and opened her eyes. "Tell me about the woman you love," she requested very softly. "And I will tell you of the man I love."

* * *

June 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British Camp

* * *

Ruth watched her children devouring the toast and jellied fruits that rested on the table. She had eaten a very small amount of bread, cheese, and grapes, but felt that to eat more would deprive someone else of their fair share. Fiona had brought a bottle of warm milk with a thick rubber nipple on top, and Ruth fed Elena, rocking her as the small baby suckled eagerly.

And through it all, Harry watched over them, offering no comment, but assisting by making sure Marie didn't spill her milk, and that Henry did not feel wanting for fresh butter for his toast. She felt terrible, sitting so close to the man she had avowed to love forever, and feeling that she was already forsaking her marriage vows to George. And to what end? Harry could not love her any longer. Not after she had turned away from him so cruelly, not after she had fucked the enemy.

She felt his gaze upon her, and she did not meet it.

She could not afford to love him anymore. Her traitorous, wretched heart had already been the cause of too much pain and suffering. She would not give in again.


	5. Chapter 5

V:

* * *

June 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British Camp

* * *

The day progressed rather uneventfully. The warfare in the Trenches continued, unabated, but with only seven deaths and fifteen casualties for his division. It felt like a failure to lose even one soldier, but he had to be realistic. He'd not crawled out of a hole in Kenya to lead a platoon in Morocco, then again in France, and now an entire division, just to turn into a bit of a pansy now. Death was an unfortunate flp-side to the coin of life, and he had to live with the knowledge that death would come to them all in time.

He went out into the night, unable to sleep after his late briefings. He stood outside his tent, smoking, watching the flickering light in the tent that had been Juliet's only that morning. He could make out the shape of someone pacing, could hear the pathetic, miserable sounds of a weeping infant; he could feel the frustration of the mother from all the way over where he was. But he hesitated to make himself unwelcome to Ruth.

She already would not meet his eyes; nor would she allow him within arm's length of her. It was strange behavior from a woman who had forsworn him her utter devotion. Maybe she felt guilty, as she should, galavanting off and marrying the first man with money and a title that far exceeded his own meager grasp. He was conflicted; he wanted to believe her capable of still loving him, but he could not bring himself to lower himself to her level to find out the answer. She was still the same beautiful Ruth, just rougher around the edges now, and it made him angry for all the might have beens and wherefores and what ifs that never would see the light of day.

But mostly, he felt the pain of a bruised ego. He had not been enough for her, clearly, to have kept her interest. He was certain that she was repulsed by him: that she always had done. It made the rest, the uncertainty, easier to bear.

The tent flap lifted and she stepped into the darkness of the night, jiggling Elena and singing softly. The baby still cried, and Ruth seemed as though she was beginning to fall apart. Harry crushed the remnants of his cigarette and quickly moved across the way. "You must not think that you are entirely safe here," he said just loudly enough for his voice to carry over the baby's cries. "Men will still be men, and many of the soldiers and officers have not seen a woman besides the Red Cross nurses or the French whores in quite a long time –"

She looked up at him with something that resembled alarm and disdain. "She will wake Henry and Marie," Ruth said. "Her poor stomach is aching – she's not had this much to eat ever in her life. I cannot get her to belch and release the gas from her belly," she added with frustrated upset.

Harry vaguely remembered Catherine being the same way when she was small, and he paused, trying to remember what had finally worked. "May I help?" he inquired.

"If you can, I will not turn it away," she confessed softly, near tears. "I feel as though I am the most dreadful mother right now – I cannot help her, I could not help Henry or Marie –"

"Shh," Harry said softly, "it will be all right in the end." He gently lifted Elena from Ruth's arms and put her on his shoulder, patting her back firmly. The baby's cries escalated to alarming levels of screaming the like he'd never even chanced to hear on the field of battle. "All right, all right, love," he sighed. His knee ached as he knelt down to the ground and laid the wee girl onto his thighs belly down, head pointed toward the ground. She struggled and flailed her tiny arms around in anger and pain, but Harry steadied her with one hand. He rubbed her back gently with his other hand, soothing her softly with promises that she would feel better soon. When she began to calm a little, he patted her back, beginning near the base of her spine, working his way up her back. Each pat increased a bit in strength, and suddenly she let out a large belch, followed by four or five smaller ones, and then her shrieking calmed to snuffling and little whimpers. "There's a girl," Harry praised softly. "Poor little one…" As soon as he'd ascertained that she wasn't going to upset anymore – aside from the bit of curdled milk that had come up with the first burping – he rolled her over and smiled down at her, letting her grasp his thumbs and pull herself upright into a sitting position on his thighs. "Do you want your mum now?" He gestured for Ruth to take her, which she did in a hurry.

He struggled to get back to his feet; his legs were numb from the exertion, tingling, and beads of perspiration formed around his hairline as he concentrated merely on not keeling over. His knee throbbed, an ever-present reminder of the frailty of his life in general, and he felt weak – far weaker than he should have. That would be the battlefield withdrawal settling in. He glanced up when he felt Ruth's gentle hand on his arm.

"Are you all right?" she asked very softly, holding his gaze for the first time since that morning in the back of the truck. "Do I need to get one of the nurses?"

"No," he said, "no, I am fine." He straightened up completely and reached into his shirt pocket for a handkerchief to dab the sweat from his brow. "And, so it seems, is your daughter." He looked down at Elena who was busy trying to grab her toes, cooing contentedly.

"Thank you for that," Ruth murmured. "Honestly – I am at my wits' end right now, and I –"

"You need to rest," he said with a sigh. "You should go back to your tent and get some sleep."

"No," she said quickly – too quickly. "I can't sleep. If I sleep, I see…" Her voice trailed off and she clutched Elena tighter to her body, leaning down to kiss the baby's forehead.

"You see what, Ruth?" he prompted.

She looked straight through him then, as if she wasn't standing right in front of him. "Hell," she whispered. "I see Hell."

He gently rested a hand on her shoulder. "You need help with the children," he said in a soft tone. "Where is their father?" He wanted her to confirm or deny the rumors; there were several that said Prince George had defected to the Germans and was either serving with them or had been taken to Darmstadt, and still more that said he had been killed in various ways… both accidental and intentional.

She was shaking; it had nothing to do with chill of evening, since it was beyond sweltering outside. "My husband is dead," she whispered, looking away from him again, avoiding his direct gaze. "I have no one to help. And my father will likely not take us in when we get to England."

"Ruth?" Harry said very softly. "What happened?" He knew that to force her to relive things would make it all so much worse for her, but he needed to know. "When did your husband die?"

"24 September, 1914," Ruth said very quietly. "German forces captured the Chateau on the 12th, and he died on the 24th." She still refused to look at him, preferring instead to study the baby in her arms.

"Elena was not his, then," Harry said.

That triggered an alarming response. She backed away from him so quickly she almost lost her balance, and her eyes were wide and terrified. "No," Ruth said, "you cannot take her from me. You cannot give her to him. I would die first – I would die before I let you take her from me –"

"No one is taking her," he was quick to assure her, reaching out to almost touch her. "Ruth – "

" _Don't touch me_!" she cried out in blind panic, slapping his hand away.

He took a step backward and lifted his hands in surrender. "Did someone force you into sexual relations after your husband's death?"

" _Murder_ ," she hissed. "George was _murdered_. Murdered and buried under the cherry tree in the front garden so I would see it and I would know what would happen if I did not comply with the Commandant's demands."

His heart beat faster, harder, with his anger that someone would dare to harm Ruth Evershed or her children – but it sobered him immediately to remember that she was no longer the Ruth he had known. She was some flittering butterfly, someone who had come out of her cocoon and left him far behind in the search for more, for better. She had clearly loved her husband; two children with him proved that they had at least more than a passing fancy for one another. And she had not loved him enough to give up her life in Europe and set sail for Africa as she had planned. It was difficult to not be bitter when presented with her betrayal directly in front of him. But he loved her still, despite the tangy, painfully bitter taste the emotion left in his mouth, and it was difficult not to be enraged by the circumstances she had endured.

"He was shot," she said, her voice rising in pitch even as it lowered in volume. "He was shot in the head, point-blank, in front of the children. In front of me. Because he tried to protect us. It was made very clear that if we did not do what we were told, we would suffer the same fate." She looked up at him, met his eyes, and he saw both resignation and pain in the flash that looked almost human – almost his old Ruth. "I had no choice. Do you think I'd let him touch me if I had any other option?"

"Ruth," he said softly, "no one blames you for –"

" _I_ blame me," she exploded, as if a timed bomb had gone off inside her. "This is _my_ fault. _She_ is _my_ fault. She is _my_ responsibility and no one will take her from me."

"No one is going to take any of your children from you," Harry said softly. "Ruth, you've been through a terrible ordeal –"

"I loved him," she exhaled, breaking eye contact again. "George. My husband. I loved him very much," she repeated. "But I was not in love with him. I feel so guilty – I should have given him so much more, but… my heart was yours." She inhaled a strangled sound that might have been a choked sob, then she disappeared back into her tent before he could even register the words, let alone formulate a reply.

* * *

19 December, 1908  
Chateau Antoinette  
France

* * *

"You're nearly there, Your Highness," the midwife encouraged. "One more push –"

Ruth gritted her teeth and bore down with all the might and fight she had left, nearly passing out when the blessed relief came. But she didn't hear the crying she expected: only silence. She heard the sound of hands on flesh, of striking, of massaging, but no sounds of life.

The midwife took the bundle of blankets and left the room, leaving Ruth alone with her maid and the afterbirth delivery. Ruth stifled a scream of pain like a wounded animal; never could the word 'labor' conjure up such horrid feelings as this.

George, ignoring both the convention of the confinement – away from prying eyes of husbands – and doctor's instructions to let her mourn in peace, came to her room and held her close. For he had lost his son just as she had lost hers.

* * *

24 September, 1914  
Chateau Antoinette  
France

* * *

"Remove your hand," George hissed, moving closer to Ruth.

The German Prince – who might a few years before have been a friend – sneered at him and said, "Who are you to give me orders?"

"Remove your hand from _my wife_ ," George repeated.

Ruth saw the flash, heard the deafening concussion, saw blood and bits of skull and brain radiate outward before George collapsed to the ground. She felt the hot spray splatter across her dress, her face, her neck, and could not understand that the inhuman sound ringing in her ears was coming from her own vocal cords. Not until she was dragged from the room, the still-hot muzzle of the revolver pressed into her skin did she even really comprehend what had happened.

Much later, when she had wiped the blood from her face, her neck, and then lower between her thighs, from the bites across her breasts and her belly where the German had taken his pleasure, she allowed herself to feel again.

And what she felt frightened her so much, she decided it was preferable to be numb. She might survive long enough to see rescue, to protect Henry and Marie, if she felt nothing.

She winced and closed her eyes as she settled into her bed.

She did not sleep.

For in darkness, came the visitation of her darkest nightmares.


	6. Chapter 6

VI:

* * *

29 June, 1905  
Coxcomb Cottage  
Mayfair, London

* * *

Harry waited patiently to be escorted into the Duke of Whiting's study; he was nervous, far more than he should have been. But he was very much aware of the Duke's reputation, and as pitted against his own, the results were likely to be less than complementary. The only thing he wanted was to secure Whiting's acquiescence in his pursuit of his daughter. That was all.

He didn't know when Ruth had crawled beneath his skin and taken up a constant presence, shifting his thoughts only to her, but he was determined to have an end to it by wooing her and keeping her as a treasure of war. For to receive the hand of the daughter of nobility, would most certainly be an act of decisive societal war.

He heard something far above him and he glanced up to see Ruth looking down at him from the third floor landing. "General Pearce," she greeted softly, though her voice carried, "what are you doing here?"

"I came to speak with His Grace on a matter of some great importance," Harry replied, trying to hide a smile – she inspired him to behave in such a besotted fashion. His men would be absolutely horrified to see him completely cowed by a slip of a girl.

But such a brilliant slip of a girl! She was well-educated and displayed an astonishing grasp of politics, history, and linguistics. He was ashamed that his own education was sorely lacking in many areas where she did excel. But he had gone into the Army to make up for his failings, rather than pursue an education and follow in his father's footsteps as a barrister.

She licked her lips and said, "I certainly hope that your business is favorably concluded, Sir." And with that, she was gone, retreated back into the room from whence she'd come.

Whiting came down the corridor, barking orders to one of the footmen. "I expect this sad business to be concluded within the hour," Whiting snarled at the footman. "Or I will be docking your wages. It is not seemly to send my daughter's shoes for cleaning and for them to come back in such a state!" He shooed the man off, then turned to Harry. "General Pearce," he began, "may I offer you something to drink whiskey, port, sherry, rum?"

"I would not say no to a whiskey," Harry said.

"Follow me," Whiting said with a sigh. "The butler is upstairs with influenza, and the underbutler was handling things in Scotland – we are a bit at our wits' end at the moment. I do apologize for the delay and any rudeness you might have endured since your arrival."

Harry followed the Admiral to his study. "Considering I barely have a manservant, I am hardly in a position to complain, Your Grace," he commented wryly. "My circumstances are transitory, and I have retained several maids, a housekeeper, and a man to press my suits and answer the door of my rented house," he added as an afterthought, because Whiting might, in point of fact, be judging him already upon the state of his household – if he suspected the reason for his visit.

Whiting poured Harry a measure of whiskey once in his study and said, "If His Majesty has sent you for a nefarious reason…"

"His Majesty has not sent me," Harry said, sipping his drink. "I have come to speak to you about your daughter."

Whiting's eyes narrowed. "So you are the one my sister sees fit to all but sell my daughter to," he muttered in disgust, throwing back his measure of rum with a grimace. "Of course, you realize that my position on this matter is that Ruth is not for sale to any man; it will take the cunning and guile of a stronger man than you to keep her."

"For a start," Harry said with a heavy sigh, "I would not seek to buy Ruth, nor hold her captive. She is a free spirit – I merely wish to…"

"Have her to warm your bed when it is convenient," Whiting finished for him. "She is younger than your own daughter, Pearce, if only by a year." He paused for a long moment, then he added, "Do not think I do not know of you or your reputation. I should dismiss you without a second thought, just for the sin of divorce."

Harry finished his drink and muttered, "My former wife and I were not well-suited."

"My late wife and I were not well-suited, either," Whiting said sharply. "And I have paid the price of her infidelities. I cannot believe that your former wife would not say the same of you, Pearce. Add to that condemnation the fact that you will be away for years at a time – I cannot give serious consideration to you as a suitable husband for my Ruth. Even if I were to overlook your lack of funds to establish and keep an adequate household for the daughter and grandchildren of a Duke of the Realm, the idea that you would remain faithful to Ruth and not cause her grave upset is utterly laughable. You forget, I competed for my Elisabeth's affections the same year you very nearly wooed her into your charms. The son of a barrister, even a successful one that employed the Queen's favor, is not nearly enough for a daughter of breeding."

Harry felt his blood pressure – and his anger – rising. "Admiral," he said curtly, "I have quite fallen in love with your daughter. I am merely asking your permission to court her properly – and to ask, when the time is right, for her hand in marriage."

Whiting glared at him with disgust and disdain. "Love means nothing," he snapped. "And you cannot say or do anything to sway my belief that you are not an appropriate match for Ruth. Now… another drink before you leave? I'll not have you spreading rumors that I was rude to you after refusing your suit."

"No, thank you," Harry spat between gritted teeth. "Thank you for your time, Admiral Evershed. I will be certain to discourage other men who might turn an eye to your daughter – they would not wish to have such a father-in-law." He stormed out of the room, regardless of the knowledge that he was behaving as a ridiculous boor.

Ruth was waiting at the foot of the main stairs for him, and she reached for him. He pulled away stiffly, then bowed. "My lady," Harry said softly, "we cannot be seen together again. Your father forbids it. As he forbids my pursuit of your affections."

"No," she said indignantly, in denial. "Papa – he wouldn't –"

"He has," Harry said, taking a step away from her. "I am sorry. I must leave: the King is expecting my presence at dinner."

He needed to leave now, before he did something he would regret later.

For she looked so much like she might cry; if she did, he would have no armor against it. He would cave to her and he could not do that – not when he must clearly cut ties altogether.

It wasn't until he was home and changing into his tails that it hit him that he might have lost everything due to his own stupidity.

And that thought hurt desperately.

* * *

June 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British camp

* * *

She didn't know what time it was, but it was dark when Ruth gave up on sleeping and began to pace the tent, her arms crossed over her chest and torso protectively. She forced herself to stay silent as she wept, so she wouldn't disturb the children. It had been an overwhelming day and she did not feel she had the right to deprive her little ones their first chance at a good night's sleep since George's death.

She wanted to leave the tent, to cross the space between her tent and Harry's; she wanted to tell him everything, exposing her traitorous heart to him, along with all of the reasons she could not – would not – give in and love him again. But she was not so confident now as she had been when she had crawled into his bed and freely given him of herself. She had been a child, a stupid, selfish child, that had naively believed that if she pleased him, if she made things right, that they would be together.

Eleven years would not change a thing.

But she could tell him the truth: that they had a son together, a handsome son who saw the good in things that were not good, whose words were poetry in whatever language he spoke or wrote in. She was proud of Henry, fiercely proud, and she needed to give him the world.

She didn't realize what she was doing until she was in her dressing gown and more than halfway to Harry's tent. She had holes in her memory from her sleep deprivation, she was sure, but she could not sleep more than a few minutes at a time.

He was still awake, sitting at his desk, rubbing his eyes as the candle burned low. He glanced up in alarm, then relaxed slightly. "Ruth, you should be asleep," Harry said softly.

"I can't sleep," she murmured. "I see everything clearly when I close my eyes and – and I cannot live like that." Ruth smiled sadly. "I am sorry," she whispered. "I wanted so badly to shake Papa off and go to Africa –"

"Your choice," Harry said, shrugging.

She paused. "No, Harry, I never had a choice," she murmured. "Not when I found out I was with child. I couldn't travel over several continents in that condition." Ruth bit her lip, waiting, holding her breath. When he showed no sign of comprehending, she added, "Papa and the King had a husband picked for me to save face as soon as it was clear I was pregnant – there was no choice, Harry. I could not come to you, no matter how much I wanted to."

"You could have sent word," he muttered. "You could have told me –"

"I sent a letter," she snapped. "I sent a letter with the men I was intended to travel with."

"I never received it," he said, glaring at her. "Did you ever think I might like to know that I'd fathered a child?"

She lifted her chin, staring down her nose at him with a haughty glare. "I was more concerned that you not lose your livelihood," Ruth said, the words sticking in her throat. "I'm sure you noticed that you lost the patronage of His Majesty – that your postings became increasingly disastrous?"

He shrugged. "The Army is not glamorous, Ruth."

"You were punished," she said softly, "for daring to touch the King's bastard daughter without his permission. It was dangerous to love me, Harry, and for doing it… you were punished."

He snorted. "No one could punish me any more than I punished myself, Ruth," he said very quietly. "Every day, I thought if only I'd had the courage to cart you off to Gretna Green and take you as my wife…"

She laughed and tightened her protective hold on herself. "We would have made a horrible muck of it," she whispered. "Disowned and without enough to raise a child –"

"But we would have had one another," he said sharply.

"And our son," she added. "Everything I've done, Harry, I've done for Henry."

He looked at her blankly, then said, "Our son."

She nodded. "Henry is our lad, Harry – yours and mine," she whispered. "And I would not change _anything_ between us if it meant that I could not have him."

He moved faster than she knew a person could move, crossing the space between them in only a couple of strides. He drew her into his arms and held her, and she stiffened, then forced herself to relax. This was Harry, her Harry, and he would not behave badly toward her. She put all of her eggs in this basket, willing herself with superhuman strength not to panic when his lips met hers. "Harry, no, please," she whispered, breaking this kiss. "Not… not yet."

She knew the world to be a cruel place; she knew her place as the widow of a Prince. She knew that if she fell under Harry's spell again, this time, when the inevitable occurred, she would break completely. She would marry again, but a man carefully chosen to raise her son as a Prince of the Blood, another man chosen for her – not the boy's natural father. It was an unfortunately harsh reality, and she would have no more choice in the matter than she ever had before.

He pressed his forehead to hers, a gesture reminiscent of their nights of lovemaking. "Ruth," he whispered, "I pledged myself to you and I've not broken that promise."

She looked up at him and breathed, "I gave you my heart, and I've not seen it these long years, Harry. But I cannot… please understand that I cannot –"

"You're shaking," he said softly.

"I am frightened," she murmured.

"Of me?"

She hesitated, but decided the truth was what he deserved. "Yes," she whispered.

In her heart, she knew that he would not, could not, hurt her the way the Commandant had done. But her body, her mind, could not wrap themselves around that simple faith. She was torn between love and fear; and his kiss had only sparked more conflict.

He released her and stepped away. "I would never force you," he said very softly.

She nodded and whispered, "You never did." Ruth reached out and twined her fingers with his, her muscles remembering the way they had melded together in the throes of passion, their utter devotion. "I just… I need time." She looked up into his eyes and blinked back tears.

"Ruth," he whispered, "we've waited a very long time."

"Your pearls are gone," she said softly. "They, and my other jewels, were taken as trophies to the Kaiser."

"When the war ends," Harry promised, "I will personally go to Berlin and get them back."

"No," she whispered, "you will come home to me and we will make good the promises we pledged one another." Because suddenly, she willed herself to take her destiny into her own hands. She didn't flinch when he kissed her knuckles, and she did not pull away when his lips caressed the inside of her wrist.

But she still felt his wariness, his anger… and she must work quickly to redeem herself, or she was certain she would lose him completely.


	7. Chapter 7

VII:

* * *

June 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British camp

* * *

"Good morning, good morning," Fiona greeted as she entered the tent that Ruth and her children were sharing. "I've brought fresh clothes from the Red Cross donation barrels. I know you didn't have much time to pack –"

"We left everything," Ruth said softly. "Thank you, Mrs. Carter."

"General Pearce has gone to the Trenches," Fiona said, "and you're to remain in my care until he and Adam return." She smiled at them and added, "So I do believe we should have fun – I've gotten some books and toys from the donations, as well."

"I left my doll," Marie said solemnly. "She looked as pretty as Mama – but I know she's broken now. The bad men will have done that."

"I don't think there are any dolls in the barrel," Fiona said in a gentle tone, "but when you get to England, I'm sure your mum will find one for you."

Ruth nodded reassuringly to the little girl. "We'll find another doll," she promised.

"But in the meanwhile, we've got a ball and some toy soldiers and blocks and things," Fiona said, trying to drum up enthusiasm.

"I think she'd rather have me read to her," Henry spoke up. "I read to Marie a lot. You said there are books?"

"There are," Fiona said. "Do you two want to come with me and pick a couple of books?"

"Please," Henry said immediately. "Mama, we're going to go with Mrs. Carter."

"All right," Ruth agreed quietly. "I'm going to write a letter to Grandfather, letting him know that we're coming to Britain soon." She didn't say that she wasn't certain that her father would allow them to stay with him. He had retired before war was declared, and she was certain that he was behind the scenes, pulling strings and making annoyed comments.

"Will you tell him that I am very excited to meet him?" Henry said with eyes that shone eagerly like a puppy's. "So I can thank him for all of my birthday presents – even though I cannot play with them now."

"Yes, of course," Ruth said with a smile, reaching out to smooth his unruly hair. "You two be very good for Mrs. Carter. Or you'll not have sweeties with dinner."

"There are sweets?" Henry said, his eyes wide.

"General Pearce keeps some hard sweets in his pockets," Ruth said with a chuckle. "If you ask him nicely, he might share."

"How do you know he does, Mama?" Marie asked. "He scares me, Mama – he looks mean."

"The General is a stern man," Fiona said, "but he is kind. You need only ask him for a lemon drop and he will share them. He loves dogs and little boys and girls who have good manners."

"I have excellent manners," Marie said, frowning at Fiona.

"I'm certain you do," Fiona said with a smile, "but General Pearce will think you're not deserving of those lemon drops if you behave ill."

Marie sighed heavily and looked at Ruth. "Mama…"

"Do as you're told, love," Ruth said gently.

"Come on, Marie," Henry said, offering his sister a hand. "Let's go get books."

Ruth watched them leave, then turned her attention back toward Elena, who was – miraculously – still napping, wrapped up in a light blanket that smelled of rosewater and lemon. She was grateful that the previous inhabitant of the tent had left behind a few things… they made her feel more human, as though she might rejoin the human race soon.

She took a long, calming breath, then settled in to write a letter to her father.

* * *

 _23 June, 1916_

 _Dear Papa;_

 _We have been rescued from our imprisonment at Chateau Antoinette. Henry, Marie, and wee Elena send their fondest love to their grandfather. We will be returning to Britain in several weeks' time, with a group of wounded soldiers and Red Cross volunteers, and I would seek to prevail upon you for shelter for an uncertain length of time. I will contact George's family in Copenhagen and arrange more permanent lodgings if necessary._

 _With love,  
Ruth_

* * *

18 May, 1905  
Grenville Hall  
London

* * *

She felt a small thrill go through her as she sensed his approach. It was becoming a ritual; General Pearce would make the rounds, flirt heartily with some of the more beautiful chaperones – the mamas of the young ladies she was meant to compete with – and then he would drink some champagne or punch or wine and nibble on some of the food on the buffet. And after that, he came to wherever she was, usually near to the door that led to the gardens so she could breathe. She inevitably had a book in her hands, as she was not much for dancing, and she was ever so much more concerned with her mind's general welfare.

"General," Ruth greeted softly, "it seems that you are quite in debt to my aunt. Surely, you cannot be paying her so much just to speak to me every night without her interference. People will talk."

"Your aunt has a priceless emerald that I much rather would have gifted to you, Lady Ruth," he said with a wry smile. "Have you been invited to the Palace to dine tomorrow evening?"

"I… am afraid I've not the pleasure, Sir," Ruth said with a small sigh. "My father and I do not frequent the Palace much anymore. I do receive a gift from my godparents every year at birthdays and Christmas, however."

He frowned and dusted his cuff. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to –"

She smiled and said, "No, it is all right. I am not exactly the one that people invite to parties except out of pity. These balls are torture for me. I would much rather be in my own bed with a book than looking at how desolate my dance card appears to be."

"That gentleman looks as though he would dance with you –"

She shook her head and sighed. "I've not had one offer of a dance in weeks," Ruth commented. It was difficult not to feel slighted and put out when it was something that was expected of her; falling short was a direct affront to her wish to try as hard as she could.

Harry cleared his throat. "My lady, allow me to pencil myself into your dance card –"

She inhaled sharply. "And allow you to be the butt of tomorrow's gossip? Do you take me to be cruel?"

"No, but I would ask you to dance and you must not refuse the offer."

She felt her cheeks flush with indignation. "Oh, you… insufferable git," she huffed.

He merely raised an eyebrow and offered her his arm. Ruth pursed her lips together in irritation, then acquiesced by taking his arm. If he wanted to prove something, he was going to have to deal with her abysmal dancing skills to do it.

By the end of the waltz, she was breathless, dizzy, and wondering…

What would it feel like if he swept her off her feet completely? What would it feel like to have his lips upon hers? What would – and she blushed to think it – their wedding night be like? She had heard whispers about men who cared for their lover or wife's pleasure as well as their own – was Harry Pearce such a man? She thought he might be, the way that he touched her ever so gently, solicitously, but always on the very edge of propriety.

And when she looked into his eyes, there was such intensity – such emotion she'd never seen the like of in her short lifetime.

He led her back to her chair near the door and murmured, "I hope our dance was quite to your satisfaction, Lady Ruth. And I will speak to His Majesty about extending you more invitations." He kissed her hand very gently through her glove, and she blinked up at him with surprise. "I must take my leave now," he said, clearing his throat. "I am having drinks with General Hampton and the Vice Admiral of the Fleet in a quarter hour."

"Followed by cards, no doubt," Ruth said. "Papa and the other Admiralty always play whist."

Harry smiled and said, "Wives are permitted to attend such events…"

She raised an eyebrow. "Such behavior is rather unbecoming a lady, wouldn't you say?"

He released her hand and said, "It depends upon the lady. I would not think you to grand to sweep the table, my lady."

She eyed him curiously, wondering how he knew she was rather a good hand at cards. Ruth shook it off, however, and merely smiled. "Part of my charm, I'm afraid," she played it off. "So I will not see you tomorrow?"

"Alas, I will be at the mercy of Their Majesties –"

"Oh," she murmured, disappointed. "I was hoping we might have another dance," Ruth admitted.

"We shall," he promised.

When she looked up from her hands carefully folded in her lap, she wondered if he had ever been there at all – if she had been daydreaming. It didn't matter in the end, for she had been lighter than air for a few moments' time…

And she knew that he was attempting to seduce her.

It clearly wouldn't take much, if her reaction to dancing was any indication. He could sweep her straight off her feet and into his bed without protest.

Oh, but she wished he would. It would be so much better than this infuriating ritual they found themselves stuck in.

* * *

1 July, 1905  
Rosewood Townhouse  
London

* * *

She felt exposed, far more so than she had even when he'd been between her legs, doing things with his mouth that she felt certain must be illegal – or at least were very, very naughty. Once Harry had helped her to remove her corset and chemise… her bravado up and vanished, leaving her very naked and quite exposed to him. She covered her breasts with her arms, glancing away from his intense stare.

Harry very gently tucked his finger beneath her chin and drew her back to face him. "Ruth," he said very softly, "you don't have to hide from me."

"I feel as though God himself will strike me down at any moment," she confessed. "We aren't – but we are going to –"

He gently kissed her, erasing all of her protests. "I am madly in love with you," he whispered. "Madly, hopelessly in love."

She bit her lip and murmured, "If I am to be naked, shouldn't you be as well?"

He frowned and said, "Many men prefer to make love with their clothes on. Those of us who have gone a bit to seed…"

"You lived in India," Ruth said with a smile. "Your belly indicates a love of food, and life, and your reputation has you as well-loved… And I should like very much to marry a man of such appetites." She leaned in and kissed him very gently. "If I may be afraid that my freckles will offend you, then you may be afraid that your belly will offend me. But it shan't." She hesitantly teased the hem of his nightshirt and murmured, "May I?"

"You may," he rumbled back, the words low and tight.

She felt his voice deep in her belly, lower even, and she felt her body beginning to warm and tingle again. She had known the basics – from a biology standpoint, having learned from a young age how to birth sheep and calves at the manor – of sexual intercourse, but she'd not even dreamed that a man could do such things as Harry had done to her already. Was it normal for a woman's body to convulse out of her very control? Being a curious child, she had touched herself, knowing that it felt pleasant – even faintly pleasurable – but it had been nothing at all like that.

She pulled his nightshirt off over his head and looked at him in the dim candlelight, a soft gasp coming from her lips as she saw scars littering his body. "Harry – what happened to you?" she breathed, her fingertips tracing several of the particularly bad wounds. "My lord –"

"That one was a tiger," he said softly. "It got past the defensive perimeter of the camp. Killed seven men, nearly disemboweled me. I'm sure she's still out there – she was only protecting her young. We were too close to their den." He shrugged. "I'm quite fond of whiskey as a result of drinking to dull the pain of infection." He waggled his eyebrows. "Not to mention, whiskey is a very good antiseptic – so long as it's not a rather expensive bottle."

"Does it hurt?" she murmured.

"Not now." He gently caught her fingers and brought them to his lips for a kiss. "Not when you touch me."

She had been careful, upon noticing that he was not wearing drawers like she'd thought he might have done, not to look directly at his manhood, but upon feeling it between them, she glanced down. "Oh," she exhaled quickly, raising her eyes back to meet his. "Goodness."

"That is how I feel when you touch me, Ruth – happy, loved… and my body responds to that," Harry said gently. "Just as yours did when I –"

"Oh, don't say it," she exclaimed, her face flushing bright red.

He cupped her face in his hands and murmured, "You are beautiful, Ruth – everything about you is lovely and I –"

"I love you, too," she interrupted him. Taking a deep breath and trying to quell her nervousness, she murmured, "May I…?"

"Hmm?"

"May I touch you?"

"Please do," he said, his voice lowering.

She reached between them and took hold of his erection, letting her hand glide over the soft skin. His eyes closed and his breathing quickened, but otherwise, he was the picture of control. It wasn't until she flicked her thumb over the tip that his eyes opened – with alarmed pleasure.

"Be gentle with me," she whispered. "I know it will hurt, but – but I will try to be good enough for you."

"Ruth," Harry said, his voice cracking and breaking with emotion, "you are far too good for me."

She bit her lip and whispered, "I don't know about that. I am the unmarried woman in your bed like a common trollop –"

"But such a beautiful common trollop," he teased.

She gasped indignantly, then startled when his hands came up to cup her breasts, sending a jolt of sensation down her spine. "Oh, I – I have no idea what I'm meant to do," she confessed.

"Just feel, my love," Harry said with great reverence. "That is what you're meant to do – feel."

Her heart was overflowing, and he wanted her to feel more?

She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes – there was no going back from this.

* * *

23 June, 1916  
France  
The Trenches

* * *

The fighting was hot and heavy; Harry knew he'd taken a terrible risk in coming to the hot zone, but he could not believe the intelligence he was receiving from the Front without verifying it. The very idea that the men were in good spirits was laughable – he had been one of those men only a week before.

Shells rained down from the sky and he winced as one exploded just down the way. He knew his hands would be shaking too much for him to drive back to the encampment, if he made it out of the Trenches alive at all. The mustard gas was thick, the shells exploded around them violently, and if that wasn't enough, a sniper was just as likely to take your head off as any of the others.

His heart pounded in his ears; not since he'd struggled against the tiger had he felt so very helpless. And he was meant to be in charge!

"Sir, we need to leave," Carter said sharply. "Now. You've seen what you came for – now we get the hell out of here before we get killed."

Harry grunted, then pulled away, heading toward what had been his sleeping area. He knew it was still there – it had to be. He dug, bare-handed, into the ground, and was rewarded with a small tin box. He felt the ground rumble, felt dirt raining down on him as the walls of the trench shook. He coughed miserably, then finally looked up at Carter. "We should go," he rasped.

He had his treasures back.

A photograph of Catherine at her wedding to a grocer. A photograph of Graham taken just before he went to America. And a yellowed piece of paper, creased so many times in the folds that there were holes in the words, but it held Ruth's beautiful, scrawling handwriting – a simple note left upon her pillow, saying that she loved him with all of her heart.

That note had seen him through injuries that would have crippled a less stubborn man; the words meant more than gold, or silver, or precious gems.

But they did not mean more than his life.

In the truck, he gave into the battlefield fatigue and began to weep. Carter did not judge him. But he judged himself.


	8. Chapter 8

VIII:

* * *

23 June, 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
Red Cross medical camp

* * *

"General Pearce, will you bloody well hold still?" the doctor roared, as if sheer volume would paralyze Harry when nothing else would. He needed to get back to camp, to make sure that Ruth and her children were all right – that the fighting had not escaped the confines of the Trenches and overwhelmed them. He was anxious, upset, twitching, and he knew he wasn't helping anything or anybody in his current state.

"I am trying," he said in a plaintive tone.

"You have several pieces of small shrapnel in your scalp," the doctor tried to explain more patiently. "And several larger ones near the base of your neck. I'm going to have to call Nurse Shaw to handle the smaller ones – a woman's hands are better for the delicate work."

Harry fidgeted in his seat and muttered, "Brigadier Carter – what is his condition?"

"Adam Carter will live to rescue you another day," the doctor said with snide derision. "There – let me suture your neck, and I'll call Nurse Shaw for the rest."

Harry grunted and gritted his teeth, unwilling to show any sign of pain in front of the doctor, lest he declare him unfit for duty. He had made a stupid decision based on sentimentality and nostalgia, and he was now paying the price. Self-control. Self-denial. He desperately needed to regroup, to gain the upper hand over himself and his demons again, before he managed to get people – more people – killed because he wasn't paying enough attention.

He started to pay more attention when Juliet settled into a chair in front of him. "Hello, Harry," she said softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've had a needle in the back of my neck, sewing me up," he muttered.

"You're lucky that's all you needed," Juliet sighed. "What the hell were you thinking, going back into the thick of it? And taking Brigadier Carter along for the ride? Fiona Carter is going to rip your guts out and use them for her garters! I certainly hope whatever it was you were after was worth it –"

He snarled, "You sound like my ex-wife."

"Well, someone needs to talk sense to you once in a while," Juliet huffed, pouring alcohol onto a cloth. "You've been on your own for far too long, Harry –"

He sighed. "I need to get back to camp."

"You need to shut your mouth and let me finish cleaning you up," Juliet snapped angrily. "We're due to get inundated with casualties from the battle you sped out of at any time now. Just you wait till you start seeing our boys coming in without arms and legs and then you bloody well tell me that you deserve to be up and walking around."

He twitched as she yanked a piece of shrapnel out of his face. He felt a trickle of blood start anew, and he wrinkled his nose, hoping that the wrinkling skin might stop the flow. "Last year, I almost lost my leg," he muttered. "Some days, I can barely walk."

"Then why are you even here?" she asked.

Harry thought about it for a moment, then he shrugged. "I've got nowhere else to go," he admitted. "My son is in America. My daughter only speaks to me in a civil manner on paper. My postings after India have basically all been to keep me in bloody exile because I upset the King. I wouldn't know what to do if I left the Army now," he confessed.

"You'd have to learn to live," Juliet said with a sad, crooked smile. "I don't suppose you and I could give it a go now my husband's gone and died –"

Harry laughed; the very idea was absurd to him. "Juliet… we would never work."

"Well, no, not when you're being stubborn," she sighed, "but we were good together…"

"In bed," he finished for her. "We were good together in bed, not anywhere else."

"Why did you go back there?" she asked after a moment. "To the front, I mean. You'd escaped – why go back?"

"I left something in the Trench I couldn't live without," he said very softly, the tin box still clutched tightly in his hands. He doubted he could make his fingers work properly to release the box even if he tried – he was anxious, twitchy, nervous. The box kept him grounded.

"It must have really been something," Juliet commented wryly. "You're a different man entirely than you were in India… and I don't know if I like it."

"I don't know that I care if you do," he retorted sharply.

"Oh, come now, Harry," she sighed. "Throw me a bone, will you? You were all brashness and out to prove your masculinity after your divorce – and now you don't even want to be touched. You keep pulling away and I'm going to end up hurting you," Juliet warned. "Hold bloody well still!" She sighed and added, "If I didn't know better, I'd say that you were in love – and that she doesn't love you in return."

He grunted. "Do the words 'skating', 'thin', and 'ice' mean anything to you?" he growled.

Juliet hummed thoughtfully, then smirked. "I have a special license."

"How do you figure?"

"I'm the one plucking shrapnel out of your head," she pointed out.

He sighed. "I fell in love with someone," he admitted very quietly. "I thought she loved me. Maybe she does; I don't know. She married someone else." He shrugged. "It seems simple, but it isn't. Nothing is simple."

Juliet made an unladylike sound. "She sounds a treat," she commented in a dry, snarky tone. "She clearly played your emotions –"

He frowned and clutched the box. If Ruth had played with his emotions, he wasn't entirely certain it was intentional on her part. She had been a child, and he had been old enough to be her father nearly twice over. Of course, he was a fool for falling in love with her in the first place – but he knew that he'd have not been able to help himself one way or the other. He'd never felt so deeply for another person as he felt for Ruth, and even now, it hurt – burned like fire in his veins – to know that she'd been the property of another man, willingly or unwillingly on her part.

Oh, but how he loved her!

Being so close to Ruth was absolute torture; he wasn't certain his self-control would hold out. He wanted to behave as they'd done before, to go back to the way things had been, even though logically, he knew it was impossible. Neither of them were the same as they were before. He was hardened, scarred and bitter. She was broken and still fragile like a just-bloomed flower in the jungle night.

She could not possibly still want him. Not now. If she ever had in the first place.

"Don't talk about her that way," he muttered with a scowl. He couldn't help how he felt; nor did he feel he should try. It was a battle he would never win.

"Touchy, touchy," Juliet taunted softly. "Changing the subject, I hope Her Highness is enjoying the things I left behind for her. She's probably been without any kind of luxury since the Germans took over, so I thought a bit of rosewater wouldn't go amiss. And some bon bons –"

"I'm sure the children will find the bon bons before she will," he said. "They're quite active children. They'll get to exploring and…"

Juliet made a face, wrinkling her nose. "I wouldn't have had children if they weren't an unfortunate complication of having relations with one's lovers," she muttered. "Horrid beasts."

"Your lovers?"

She rolled her eyes and swabbed at his face with an alcohol-soaked cloth, making him flinch. "My children, dear."

"Oh, yes, of course," he mumbled, distracted and in pain.

"Now, promise me you won't get all big-headed and think you can woo the Princess," Juliet teased. "I know men's hearts can waver from their true loves when a simpering smile is evident –"

Harry cringed and muttered, "You've well and truly overstepped, Juliet. The woman is a widow and has been violently assaulted. There will be no attempt on my part to get into her pants."

Juliet sighed. "Alas, there goes my entertainment!" She looked at him and said, "When the war is over, you should go find this mystery woman of yours and sweep her off her feet. Or at least abscond with her to a lovely hotel and register as Mr. and Mrs. Pearce… and make passionate love."

Harry frowned and looked down at the dirt-caked tin box in his hands and sighed. "She won't want a broken old soldier," he said with anguished dejection.

"And if that is true," Juliet said, "you'll always have a place in my bed, Harry."

That made him feel ever so much worse.

* * *

23 June, 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British camp

* * *

There had been low rumblings throughout the camp all day. Rumblings about the battle in the trenches getting far worse. Rumors that General Pearce and Brigadier Carter had been caught in the fighting and that's why they hadn't returned from their errands. Rumors that they had been killed, or worse yet, captured.

Fiona had stayed with Ruth and the children, as much as to keep her spirits up as it was to keep Ruth's spirits alive. She was good with the children, and had told Ruth it was because she and Adam had a son – Wesley – who was back in England with her parents. Wesley was about Henry's age, and very rambunctious – as opposed to Henry, who was studious and industrious.

"Oh, she's finally eating," Fiona cooed, looking at Elena as she suckled greedily at her bottle. "What a good girl she is – she doesn't cry much, does she?"

Ruth shook her head and murmured, "None of us do much. We suffer in silence, praying it will get better. She doesn't know any differently."

"Well… it will get better for her," Fiona promised softly. "She won't be here much longer."

Ruth sighed and said, "No, I suppose not. But, then again, I don't know who will take us in. My father may or may not allow us to come to stay in Scotland. And even if he does, I do not know if eventually, we will end up in Copenhagen or even further away." She smiled sadly. "Or if I will be forced to marry. Or – " She sighed again, and murmured, "I wish life was simpler."

Fiona nodded and said, "I wish I knew if my husband was all right. Every time he's away from the camp – even though I know he's an officer and a soldier and a grown man – I panic until he's home again. It's hard, being the woman who doesn't know if she's going to be a widow in a few hours' time." She smiled and reached out to gently stroke Elena's head. The baby peered up at her curiously as she drank her milk.

It suddenly occurred to Ruth that she'd never quite been in this position before. Harry's deployment to Kenya had been an abstract; she knew there was danger along the way, but it had seemed like the start to a jolly good adventure. George had never served in the military in any capacity beyond being a ceremonial leader of the Danish Hussars Guard, and even that was limited. But now, there was very real danger and a very real chance that Harry – and others – could die, violently. And it shook her to the very core to know that there would be absolutely nothing she could do for him if it happened.

"Your Highness?" Fiona said softly. "I can't help but notice that you and the General… know one another."

Ruth glanced at her with alarm. Was it really that obvious? Were they so transparent? "We do," she managed to say.

"Don't worry – I don't think anyone else realizes," Fiona said. "But you'd best be careful, or tongues will wag. I'm sure no one will say something intentionally, but –"

"We knew one another from London," Ruth said. "That's all. We were good friends. I don't think he expected to see me here of all places. I don't think he expected to see me at all – I know I didn't expect to see him." She looked down at Elena, thinking of all the things she'd managed to ruin in her lifetime; so many good things. She had ruined her parents' marriage. She had ruined her natural father's diminishing relationship with his wife. She had ruined Harry's life simply by loving him. She had ruined her own marriage by wishing and hoping that Harry would come and take her away. She was well on her way toward ruining her children's lives… and the cycle would never end, it seemed.

"I'm sure no one faults you for being friends with the man," Fiona said. "But there are those who would use it to their benefit. Juliet Shaw, for example – the woman is a bleeding nightmare, and she's been trying to get in his pants since her husband died. I loathe her: she is truly odious."

Ruth smiled wanly. "I'm sure General Pearce is fully capable of fighting his own battles where women are concerned," she said.

"I wish I had your confidence," Fiona said, making a face. "Besides, if he kissed that, I'd have to go take a few shots of whiskey to deal with the image that would forever be stuck in my head."

"I don't know the woman, so I shouldn't comment, but she sounds vile," Ruth murmured. "Especially if she's throwing herself at General Pearce. He's not been one to care for such blatant acts of…"

Fiona smiled at Ruth and said, "Just a friend, you say?"

"I can be friendly and yet not care to see him… molested," Ruth protested quickly. "Besides, I do not see how it is any of your business."

"It isn't any of my business at all," Fiona said with a smirk on her lips, "but it keeps me from worrying about my erstwhile husband."

"Please don't say anything to anyone," Ruth pleaded. "Please, Fiona."

"I won't," Fiona promised.

Ruth felt so alone, so very small, and she needed to tell someone else all the things that were tumbling about inside her head, lest she go mad. "General Pearce and I… had an understanding. Until my father found out, that is."

"An… understanding? You were _engaged_ to the man?"

"Not formally, as such," Ruth said, feeling miserable. "But I intended to join him at his next posting where we could be married –"

"Oh my god," Fiona breathed. "What happened – I mean… I know what happened, but what happened? You never made it to wherever he was, I assume and –"

Ruth propped Elena up on her shoulder and began to pat her back. She exhaled a hollow, sad sound that might once have been breath. "My father found out and worked with my godparents to coerce a Greek prince to marry me instead," she said quietly. "I never had a snowball's chance in Hell of ever getting to Kenya to marry Harry. I took what everyone made out to be my just desserts and never thought I'd see Harry again."

"You father sounds like a right arse," Fiona huffed. "Didn't he have any idea –"

"Yes," Ruth said softly, "he did, and as much as I resent him for it, he might have had a point."

"How so?" Fiona asked, eyes wide. "Surely you cannot justify –"

"No, I can't justify his actions," Ruth said, frowning. "But until the War, I wanted for nothing. We had money, power, things beyond my wildest dreams… The only thing that was missing was love, and even so, my husband and I did care for one another. I just… I can't give myself to uncertainty now. I have three children to look after and I don't know what I'm going to do now."

"I have no idea how you've not thrown yourself at him and begged clemency," Fiona said, her voice tinged with something a cross between horror and admiration. "Surely he knows it wasn't your fault and it certainly was not your choice –"

"I don't know that he does," Ruth said as the baby belched and cuddled up against her shoulder. "I don't know that any man could understand how we are treated as cattle in this world. I don't think I can explain to him how I feel right now, either."

Fiona nodded and said, "Well… maybe you should try very hard to understand your own emotions, because he won't ever be able to comprehend if you don't understand yourself. But do it quickly, because the truck is coming down the road right there." She pointed at the truck in the distance, getting closer. "I won't tell another soul – not even my Adam," Fiona promised.

She watched in silence, envious, as Fiona and her Adam were reunited; they embraced and kissed in the middle of the camp, earning whistles and laughs and even jeers from the other officers and soldiers nearby. And she watched as Harry, ever the General – the leader, the man with the power of a god – climbed down from the lorry's cab. He was dirty, muddy, and there was blood still caked on the side of his face.

But she was so glad to see him that, consequences be damned, she took a few steps toward him hesitantly – she wanted to run to him, to hold him, but she could not break the rules of propriety quite so blatantly. He watched her for a long moment, then gestured for her to follow him.

Once inside the safety of his tent, he crushed her – and Elena – close to him in an embrace. "I thought I might not ever see you again," he said in a very quiet tone.

"We didn't know anything – whether you were alive or dead or – " she whispered, her voice suddenly catching on a miserable sob. "And I was afraid I would lose you before I could tell you – before I could explain…"

"Shh," he soothed, "I'm all right."

"But I'm not," she confessed. "And I don't know if I ever will be again."

"I don't care," Harry said firmly. "I will still care for you –"

"No," she interrupted. "Don't you dare, Harry. Don't you dare try to make this a good-bye. Not now, not after everything we've been through already – I won't let you. I'm going to be selfish for once in my life and take what I want – and I want you. I gave myself to you, freely, because I love you. And I don't care what it takes, what I have to give up: I am not walking away from you again, Harry." She leaned further into his arms, listening to his heart beating an alarming tattoo.

There was silence, aside from Elena's sleepy noises. Ruth began to wonder if she had overstepped her boundaries, but then she felt his hot, wet tears dripping onto her skin. "Ruth," he finally choked out, "marry me."

She took his hand, squeezing it tightly, offering him a strength she didn't feel alone. "I already promised I would," she whispered. "And now I am free to keep my word."


	9. Chapter 9

IX:

* * *

15 July, 1905  
Rosewood Townhouse  
London

* * *

Ruth curled up against Harry like a cat, drinking in his warmth and relishing the moments they still had together – stolen as they were. For on the morrow, he would be leaving for Kenya, and she would be heading north to her father's estate in Scotland to await his arrival after his Naval exercises off Dover. She was glad of the quiet, the peace, the ability to do as she pleased in the dead of the night… if only her father would stay away just a bit longer so she might make her plans at her leisure, rather than in haste.

"Mmm, Ruth, hold still," Harry sighed, breathing deeply, his fingers twitching where they dug into the sensitive flesh of her side. They'd not made love tonight, content to hold one another and be held in return. "I'm pretending it's not our last night together. That you'll be here and my wife when morning comes –"

"If only," she murmured, kissing his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "Alas, we cannot easily manage it –"

"And if we could?" he asked. "Would you wish it?"

"To wake with you every morning? I would wish it," she responded quickly and softly.

"Do you know what you're saying?" Harry asked. She could hear the frown, the uncertainty, in his voice. "You're young and your naivety –"

"I am not naïve," Ruth said firmly, sitting bolt upright, wincing from the sudden strain on her muscles. "How dare you insult my honor – what's left of it, regardless – by insinuating that I am a naïve child!"

"I am just saying that down the line, maybe even in a few months' time, you might change your mind and wish for someone more your own age," he said. "I am not a young man, Ruth –"

"I do not see what age has to do with anything in this matter," Ruth huffed. She was worried that he was trying to do the honorable thing now that he had 'taken her' and she needed to think, and act, quickly in order to prove to him that she did not consider this a passing fancy. And it was so much deeper than mere physical desire that she felt – she felt connected to him in a way that defied description, and when they were together, alone, in his bed – even such as they were – she felt a comfort and a sense of belonging and home that she had never experienced before. He respected her, cherished her, and she knew that marriage to such a man would be far different than if she had merely walked up to one of her godmother's cousins and flirted until he proposed. That idea was absurd; princes were not likely to care for a bookish miss who did not care if her dresses were in fashion or if her jewels were the largest and most ostentatious in the room.

Though, she did dearly love the parure of diamonds, lapis lazuli, and opals that she had inherited from her grandmother… but that was neither here nor there!

"Age has much to do with –"

"Marriage is until death would do us part," Ruth said stubbornly. "That does not mean that you would be the first to die due to your age. I have just as much chance of first death as you do." She tilted her chin as if defying him to argue the point. Childbirth, complications from illnesses, and consumption were all very real threats, even now – and it was twice as likely that a woman would die rather than a man. So, to her, his arguments were flimsy, invalid, and even feebly laughable.

He reached up and stroked her cheek. "Ruth, your fire will burn us both," he said softly. "You burn brightly as a star in the sky –"

"Stop trying to woo me," she scolded. "You already have me, Harry. Just say the words and I am yours – till death us do part. I don't care if my father takes away my inheritance or my dowry or any of it. I will have you. And that is enough for me. I will be content if only I might have you." She paused, biting her lower lip nervously, hoping he did not think she was being to forward and proposing marriage to him.

He took a deep breath and murmured, "I must be a fool because I can think of nothing I would love more in this life than to be married to you, my sweet Ruth. Would you do me the honor and privilege of becoming my wife?"

She released her lip and smiled. "I will, you daft man," Ruth murmured, leaning in and kissing him. "As soon as we are able – "

"You mustn't worry about –" he began, but she put her fingertips against his lips and silenced him clumsily.

"Shh, dearest," she whispered. "We haven't much time before I have to go home. And I want to show you how I will miss you when we are parted."

She wanted to tell him all the things she could not find words to say; it hurt her to think that he might believe her to not be as in love with him as he might be with her. And all because of their age difference! Ruth was young, but she was not blinded by idealism. She knew that to love meant to open her heart to loss and suffering and all the pain that it would bring; but love was also a beautiful thing. She felt it to be true, though she'd not felt anything quite like it before.

His skin was hot against hers; she was always cold, and he seemed always to be warm like embers in a stoked fire. She explored him, touched him, tasted the layer of sweat that formed upon his skin unbidden. And with a boldness she did not know she possessed, she brazenly kissed his erection. He moaned lowly in the back of his throat, a noise of pleasure she was becoming accustomed to, and she moved forward to hesitantly lick him. After all, if his tongue on her inspired such passions, did it not stand to reason that hers would elicit the same reactions in him?

She persisted, taking his moans and groans as her cues. He finally threaded his fingers through her hair and gently pulled her back. "Ruth, stop," Harry pleaded, his voice shaking. "Stop, please."

"You aren't enjoying it?" Ruth asked, a little wounded.

"I am enjoying it – far too much," he choked out. "And if you continue…"

Her face flushed with mortification and she ducked her head so he wouldn't see the shame in her eyes. It flashed through her mind that maybe she was nothing more than a common whore by doing that and he wanted better for his wife –

"Ruth," he said softly, "look at me. My sweet, look at me." When she didn't, he gently reached over and turned her head for her with a touch of his fingers. "You have no idea what pleasure you bring me, love – but I owe you the same in return. And if you continue in that manner, I will be spent before I can love you the way I'd like. That is all. There is no shame in touching me like that: I rather enjoy it."

She swallowed hard and blinked back tears that had welled up suddenly with her embarrassment. "I please you?" Ruth whispered.

"You please me very much, my Ruth," he murmured, gently kissing her lips.

If she would admit it to herself, she felt wanton and free – but to say such things aloud would only serve to remind her that her freedom would be leaving on a boat on the morrow. So she poured her heart into their kiss, and surrendered her heart to him completely.

* * *

23 June, 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British camp

* * *

Their brief, intensely passionate kiss ended, and Ruth pulled away just far enough to rest her head comfortably on his chest. "I want my name back," she whispered. "I don't want to be Sofia anymore; I don't want to be Orthodox, either. That part of my life is over. It ended when George died."

Harry closed his eyes; he could not even begin to imagine what she'd endured. He didn't want to think about it. He needed to make her see that this was a new beginning for them, to give her some hope. "I'll speak to Malcolm in the morning," he said softly. "He is our primary chaplain – but undergoing conversion again is not a step to take lightly, Ruth."

She pulled away from him and stared at him for a long moment, then said, "Since I left the Church of England, my life has been riddled with death and tragedy. I hesitate to say that God forsook me when I converted, but it certainly feels that way. Maybe I shall curry good favor by coming back to the flock?" she murmured. "Maybe God will smile on us where he did not smile before."

"Oh, love," he said, pulling her back into his arms. "I am sorry that you believe –"

"I just… I want to be happy," she whispered, clinging to him, Elena squished between them. "For once in my sodding life, I want to be happy."

He sent a silent prayer up to anyone who might listen that he was worthy to bring her that bit of happiness she craved.

* * *

8 November, 1909  
Chateau Antoinette  
France

* * *

She sat upon the window seat in the library of her perfect cottage in the French countryside, the wife of a perfect gentleman, the mother of a perfect son, and she was so unhappy that she desperately wished that she might wither and die on the very vine. Her heart ached with unfulfilled longing for her Harry so far away across land and sea both; her heart ached with the loss of another child that should have come into the world for her to hold.

George, bless him, had been patient and supportive, loving even, as she had slowly crawled her way back to life after her confinement. Two stillborn children in as many years; of course she felt herself completely to blame. God was punishing her: she had made a vow and she had broken it. And now, she was tainted – as if she was not already tainted as a bastard.

Henry was sleeping cuddled up against her, a single shining light in the storm of her life. For if she could not have her dearest Harry, at least she had his son. She gently stroked the boy's dirty blonde, curly hair, and wished – not for the first time, and certainly not for the last time – that Harry could know his son.

She glanced up when George came into the room. He watched them in silence for a moment, then said, "I think we should get away for a bit once the snow thaws – my Russian cousins have invited us to St. Petersburg."

Ruth inhaled deeply, then nodded, knowing that he meant the Dowager Empress – her godmother's sister, who had been so very quick to arrange their marriage – and her children including the Tsar himself. Russia was an entirely different animal, wild, savage, full of glittering parties and opulence that might turn her head for a time.

Maybe it was for the best, to try to continue living when there seemed to be no hope left.

But in her dreams, her fondest heart, she held tightly to the belief that Harry might understand and forgive her.

* * *

23 June, 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British camp

* * *

Harry felt a gentle tugging on his pants, and he looked down – very far down – to see Marie with her dark hair and gigantic blue eyes. "Hello," he said. "Can I help you, Miss Marie?"

The little girl nodded, then said very quickly, "May I have a lemon sweetie, Mr. General, Sir? Miss Fiona said you have them and if I am very good and very polite and eat all of my dinner – including the yucky greens – I could ask you and you might give me one?" She looked at him so hopefully that his heart melted; there was something so very Ruth-like about the girl that he had no defense at all against her.

"If I give you a sweet, will you allow me to tell you a bedtime story?" he asked.

Marie hesitated, then said, "I don't know if my Mama will let you."

Henry burst into the tent and said, "Marie, we've been looking everywhere for you! Mama is worried sick. You're going to get the strap when she gets her hands on you!"

Marie stared at her brother in wide-eyed horror. "No! I just – I wanted a sweetie!"

"Come now," Harry said, "I'll give you both a lemon drop and walk you home again. Your mother must be very worried about you both."

"Marie is the one that disappeared," Henry protested.

"Yes," Harry said, seeing a lot of himself in the boy now that he knew the truth, "but mums always worry about their children, even when they aren't children anymore." He went to his candy jar – which was very nearly empty – and retrieved two lemon drops.

The children treated the candy as if it was the most precious thing on earth. He gently ushered them out of his tent and across the way to Ruth's tent. "Hello, hello," he greeted. "You seem to have lost two very small lemon drop lovers –"

Ruth was in hysterical tears as she embraced Marie, picking her up and holding her close like a limp doll. "Don't you dare run away like that again," she sobbed. "I didn't know where you were – "

"I just wanted a sweetie, Mama," Marie said. "I can't breathe!"

Henry looked up at Harry and sighed. "You're right. Mama is going to worry about us till we die."

Harry chuckled. "She can only worry until she dies, son," he said gently.

"No, she'll worry about us from Heaven," Henry said. "Like Papa."

Harry flinched inwardly, then wondered if he would ever get used to his son calling someone else 'Papa'. In all probability, he would not. And it stung, knowing that his son would likely not know the truth until he was much older. If ever. Even if he and Ruth married and the marriage was not annulled by her interfering family.

Even if they all survived the bloody war and things went back to normal, there would always be a ghost in the background, hovering; a ghost named George.

It took him a moment to realize that Henry was holding his hand. "Yes," Harry said, squeezing the boy's hand. "Like your Papa."


	10. Chapter 10

So, I had kind of a rough week and wasn't much in the mood to write. So, I finally got it done. Sorry for the wait!

* * *

X:

* * *

24 June, 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British camp

* * *

Ruth gave up the attempt to sleep sometime in the middle of the night when the camp had gone silent. There were still distant noises from the battlefield, but they were much diminished from the raucous noises of the daytime. She made certain the children were tucked up in their beds, then she left the tent to pace in the darkness.

Had she made the right decision, impulsive as it had been, to keep her promise to Harry and marry him? Was she a nostalgic old fool, grasping for straws when so clearly, she had hurt him, destroyed him inside? He was not the same man she had fallen in love with – but by the same token, neither was she the same woman.

She had been a silly lass, head full of nonsense and ideas that would never come to pass. A few years had changed all of that, hardening her into a shell that might break if it was touched. And she wanted to be touched – maybe she was still that silly lass, after all. She paced in circles, her mind racing in so many directions she couldn't reign the thoughts in.

And suddenly, she cried out as someone touched her. "Shh, Ruth, it's only me," Harry soothed gently. "What are you doing up?"

"What are you doing up?" she echoed, her voice wavering wildly.

"I've been busy," he said evasively. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I told you: I cannot sleep." Her voice was tiny, even to her ears. She was shaking in his arms, her body reacting to his presence and the suppressed urge to flee before he could hurt her.

"Come with me," he said very gently, softly, almost tenderly. For a moment, a brief shining moment, she could believe that he was still her Harry. "I assume the children are all asleep now?"

She nodded and watched him capture her hand in his, holding it as if he was afraid to let go. "Yes… they always sleep well," Ruth murmured. "There is no reason for my failure to be theirs."

"Ruth, come with me," he invited again. "Have a glass of wine, take your mind off things for a few minutes…"

"I shouldn't," she whispered.

"Ruth, do I frighten you?" Harry finally asked.

"A little," she admitted. She looked away from him, but decided that honesty was the best course of action. "He would come for me in the night, when he was done giving orders and playing games with his men. I learned not to sleep."

"No," Harry said softly. "I am not him, and I will not ever treat you like that man did, Ruth. Not even in anger."

"I know that, logically, you aren't the same man – but my body doesn't comprehend it," she whispered. "I'm ready to run and hide and – I don't want to. I want to go with you." She looked up, meeting his gaze in the darkness again. "I just – I need you to understand, Harry."

"I would never intentionally harm you," he said, his voice taking on a hard edge.

"I know," she murmured.

"Come with me, then," he said very gently. "This is still an encampment of soldiers, Ruth, and I cannot guarantee your safety if you're out wandering by yourself after dark."

She squeezed his hand and said, "I know. I'm coming. Just… don't be angry with me if I am not as… encouraging as I used to be."

He led her to his tent and pulled the flaps closed behind them. "I have wine, some bread, and some cheese," he invited. "Please feel free to help yourself. I've already eaten, but it looks as though you've not."

She exhaled with a snort of frustration. "Why do you say things like that?" Ruth demanded. "I've eaten."

"Ruth, I'm concerned for your welfare –"

"Well, stop. I am an adult, you know," she huffed. Her stomach rumbled in protest, belying her words. "Oh, fine, I'll eat," she muttered.

They sat in silence, sharing the bread, cheese, and wine. It was quiet and comfortable, with neither of them having any expectations of the other for the moment. Finally, Harry cleared his throat and said, "I took the liberty of speaking to Malcolm Wynne-Jones earlier this evening. He is the company chaplain, and he is willing to marry us before you and the children return to England, should you wish it. He believes that a marriage between us will not cause issue, providing you were serious about returning to the Church of England."

"Of course I was serious," she muttered. "I was forced to give up my faith and my name to marry a man I did not want to marry. I want those things back, Harry. I want to be your Ruth again when I marry you. I know it seems like a frivolous issue –"

"It isn't any such thing," he assured her. "Why do you think I spoke to Malcolm?"

"It doesn't matter what I want or what I do," she said, smiling sadly. "I've not got any sort of claim on anything of George's – seeing as he had nothing without the kindness of his aunt and uncle – and neither does Henry. Henry is Papa's heir. When he dies, my son will be the Duke of Whiting. So maybe it's better that we return to Britain in the long run. I don't know." She sighed and rubbed her eyes. "I want to be a good wife and mother, but I've done nothing but fail at it."

"You've not failed as far as I can tell," he said. "Your children are delightful, well-mannered little beings. And I would not be intent on wedding you if I did not believe you to be the best of women." He looked away, then said softly, "You have always been too good for me, Ruth. And what you see in this beat up old soldier, I will never understand –"

She reached over and touched his arm very gently. "Love doesn't require understanding," she murmured. "Only acceptance."

He looked at her then, and she could see the depths of his hurt – of the wound she had, however unwillingly, inflicted upon him. She leaned forward and kissed him very gently upon the lips, never allowing him to see how frightened she was; of him, of them, of the past, of the future, of the present moment and the overwhelming urge she felt to give herself up to him like a prize won in one of his campaigns.

"Ruth, I –"

"Shh," she whispered. "I never stopped loving you, Harry. And I never will."

"I want to be a gentleman," he said, his voice low and earnest, "since I was unable to behave in a gentlemanly fashion before… but then you go and say things like that and it tries my patience."

She smiled a little and murmured, "Does that mean you care for me in the same manner, General Pearce?"

"It means if I were any less of a gentleman, I would have you in my cot already," he muttered. "But you are not ready for that and I would not push you into it –"

"You don't know my heart," she whispered. "It wants what it wants; and it wants you, Harry. I cannot fight it and I was a fool to think I ever could."

"I won't harm you by pressuring you," Harry said firmly. He kissed her forehead and murmured, "But I will speak to Malcolm about performing the marriage as soon as possible. You deserve what small amount of comfort and love I can give you before you leave."

"You've already given me love," she said. "And comfort, but… Harry, what if you don't come back to England? What then?"

He frowned as if that thought hadn't really occurred to him. "Then you, as my wife, will have access to my pension and my vault. It isn't much, but it will keep you and the children in comfort for some time yet."

"I don't want to think about losing you so quickly after finding you," she complained softly. She looked down at her hand where it rested on his arm, gently stroking him through his shirt sleeve, then back up at him, wondering if he'd noticed. His face betrayed nothing; he'd always had a good bluffing face, but there was a flicker of hope in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

She leaned in and kissed him again, this time opening her lips and hesitantly running the tip of her tongue across the seam of his lips. He responded by deepening the kiss, and for the first time in months, she felt safe enough to relax and breathe. It was an odd response to such a gently erotic stimulation, but she wasn't about to question her feelings, her instincts. They had served her well thus far.

He pulled away and breathed heavily, eyes closed. "Ruth, we are pushing the limits of my gentlemanly nature –"

"Good," she murmured. "Because I don't want you to behave like a gentleman, Harry. I want you to be my Harry, the man I fell in love with – the man who swore he would keep me happy all of my days. I want to be happy, Harry. I've never been happier than when I was with you."

"I don't want to hurt you," he said very quietly.

"You won't," she breathed.

"Ruth…"

"You won't hurt me, Harry," Ruth said, her voice low and soft. "I trust you." She tangled her fingers with his, leaning close, feeling his hot breath against her skin. "I love you."

"God help me, I love you, too," he said as if it pained him to speak the words.

"Then show me," she murmured. "Please."

He pulled away from her, and she watched him, disappointment etched upon her face. He went to the desk and extinguished the gas lantern, shrouding the tent in darkness. "No use in the whole camp knowing what we're up to," Harry said. She flinched when he wrapped his arms around her, and he whispered, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"You didn't," she lied, though her heart pounded in her ears and she thought she might panic at any moment. "Harry, you didn't – "

"I remember you tasting like a rare, exotic fruit," he whispered. "An unspoiled wine –"

"I am neither of those things now," she murmured. "I hope you won't be disappointed with me."

"Never," he vowed, kissing her neck. "I won't be disappointed, Ruth." She shivered and leaned back into his embrace, loving the feel of him, warm and sturdy, against her back. His hands wandered down her torso, skimming the outline of her body, tracing her in the darkness so he might see her better. She whimpered as his fingertips grazed the top of her thigh near where it connected to her hip, and her body abruptly awakened at his masterful touch. She hadn't felt anything like that since she'd been but a girl and her life had been spread before her at the hands of gentleness and love.

She decided then that it was more than past time for her to give in to her desire to follow him wherever he might lead her; for he was her future, he was her past, and he was the piece of her soul that had been torn away and cast into the dirt.

The floodgates opened; kisses became greedy, needy, hard enough to bruise and yet not hard enough to assuage the growing want between them. She ignored the pain of layers of bruises and let him touch her any way he pleased – for it pleased her to know he still wanted her as much as he did. His hands on her hips as he pulled her close and guided them together were a soothing, healing balm, and she was trembling as he moved inside her for the first time in eleven years. He watched her intently in the darkness, searching for any sign that he was causing her pain, but she merely brought him down for a kiss, wrapping her legs tighter around his hips.

It was fiercely primal, not at all ladylike, but she bit his shoulder as she shattered into a million pieces; she didn't want anyone to hear them. He was in charge; he couldn't have his authority challenged by something so stupid as a casual sexual encounter in-camp. She would not be the cause of anyone undermining him.

He stilled above her, and she felt comforted by his bulk like a blanket around and atop her. He exhaled heavily against her neck and moaned something she couldn't understand. "Harry?" she whispered, running her fingers through the curly hair at the nape of his neck.

"That was very uncouth of me," he repeated, breath still shallow. "I shouldn't have just –"

"I wanted you to," she murmured, smiling. "Harry, we needed that. So very much."

"I gave you my heart," he said very quietly, pulling her onto her side with him. They were no longer joined, but she didn't care. She felt so much closer to him now than she'd ever felt with George. She was happy, safe, and loved. "I gave you my heart and you walked away with it. Now I have it back and I don't know what to do with it."

"Love," she whispered, kissing his chest. "Just love, Harry."

* * *

21 August, 1912  
Morocco

* * *

Harry sat on the back of his camel in the desert and – for the millionth time – he cursed Ruth Evershed and her bloody womanly wiles. He wanted a woman, and badly, but no one even compared to her. She had walked away with his desires and his heart and now he was a hollow shell of a man.

Nearing the oasis, he swiped at the heavy sweat pouring off his brow. They had gone through the desert – the mighty Sahara – on a fool's errand to Timbuktu. They had lost more than half the troops that had set out on the expedition, and now he would have to answer to his superiors as to why they had not achieved the objective, and why so many had died.

And the King would be cross.

Three years they had been gone. Maybe, just maybe, someone would cut him some slack.

The water was nearly gone and they still had several hundred miles to go to reach the outpost at Casablanca.

Harry was not a praying man, but even he was praying that the world had changed in the years they had been away. That maybe, just maybe, he would find a better life waiting for him.

But he knew his prayers would fall on deaf ears, just as his fevered cries for Ruth had echoed in the camp when malaria had struck him down for weeks.

He was nothing and nobody now, his influence stripped away. All he had left was his men and his duty.

The Army would chew you up and spit you back out if you let it; he hadn't had a choice.

* * *

24 June, 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British camp

* * *

Harry felt guilty as he watched her sleep what might have been her first truly restful sleep in years. He felt guilty for having ravaged her like an animal. She had been taken in fear and in anger by the German and he could not help but fear that he had done the same very thing to her, despite her assurance to the contrary.

He held her in his arms, touching her skin, the softness of rose petals coming to mind beneath his calloused, hardened fingertips. She did not know the kind of man he was; how capable he was of destroying in order to survive. She could not know that he intended to see the war out to the bitter end and then he would run her rapist through with his blade. He would protect her – and her children – as best he could.

He was not a saint; no, he was a sinner of the highest order. And what she saw in him, he would never know or comprehend. But the naked trust and love she pointed toward him made him feel even guiltier.

She was pinning her faith and love onto his chest like a medal, and he did not believe himself capable of rising to the challenge of being everything she needed him to be. Maybe he hadn't been ready 11 years before, either.

But oh, how he loved her.

Even with her in his arms, even after they had found the pinnacle of pleasure together, he could not understand. He could only hope and wish and dream the dreams he'd given up on so long before.

He could only love her.


	11. Chapter 11

So, work's been incredibly stressful and I've not really felt like writing. It's hard to pull words out of your ass when you feel like you can't even string together a coherent sentence in real life.

* * *

XI:

14 August, 1910  
unexplored African trade route

* * *

Malcolm Wynn-Jones was not a man prone to hysterical fits or overly pragmatic thoughts. So when he believed that their party was doomed – and had been from the beginning – it was more a statement of fact than anything else. The men were dropping like flies from fever and lack of fresh water. Their uniforms were anything but helpful in the heat of the desert, and if he ever managed to get back to the civilized world, he would kindly write to the King and make him aware of the abysmal conditions his men in the military were forced to endure for the sake of 'looking a gentleman'.

They had been stopped at the oasis for a week, the latest casualty of malaria being Lieutenant General Pearce – Sir Rough and Ready, to those who were fortunate enough to survive a tongue-lashing for calling him such to his face. There was no moving until their fearless, hell bent leader was either dead or rose from his deathbed to face another day.

And for the moment, Malcolm chose to sit with him, reading from the Bible – or what was left of his copy, soaked with blood, sweat, and caked in mud as it was. As the chaplain of the expedition, it was his place to speak words of God's comfort to the men, and more so to the men who were in imminent peril of meeting their maker. Pearce had been in a bad way for several days, and this day, his fever was higher than ever, and he would not stop calling in parched breath, cracked and bleeding with pain, for "Ruth" or "my darling".

Malcolm was reading from the book of Job when Pearce sat bolt upright and cried, "Why are you keeping her from me? Where is Ruth? Where is my love – my wife?"

"Sir," Malcolm said in as soft and gentle a tone as he could muster, "you must lie down. Ruth is not here." He could not speak to any firm conclusion that Pearce was married or unmarried, but it was clear that this woman named Ruth meant more to him than anything else in his life.

"Where is she?" Pearce demanded, his eyes glazed and unseeing. "Where is my Ruth? Why hasn't she come to me? We promised – "

"She is coming," Malcolm lied. Anything to make his superior officer calm down, to rest. "She will join us in Timbuktu, sir."

Pearce nodded and swallowed hard. "I've not seen her these long years… will she even remember?"

"I think she will," Malcolm said softly. "But you must rest so we can be on our way again soon."

Harry looked past him and mumbled, "She has forgotten me. She has forgotten our promises. But I can't." And with that, General Pearce slipped back into unconsciousness born of fever.

Malcolm could only wonder and speculate about the gentleman's distress.

* * *

25 June, 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British camp

* * *

Elena was just finished taking her bottle when the tent flap lifted. "Your Highness?" came a gentle voice from the opened door. "I am Staff Sergeant Wynn-Jones – General Pearce asked me to stop in and speak to you…"

Ruth immediately said, "Yes, please, come in – my son and daughter went with Nurse Carter for the afternoon. I suppose I've always taken for granted the idea of having help to look after them… I'm afraid I'm a terrible mother –"

The man stepped into the tent and released the flap. "Nonsense," he declared firmly. "Your position of station declares your need for someone else to assist. May I sit?"

She nodded and placed Elena on her shoulder and tried to burp her. "General Pearce says you are a man of discretion," Ruth said hesitantly.

"I am a man of God," he replied. "And you may call me Malcolm, Your Highness, if it pleases you. My full name would keep us here for days." Malcolm smiled and nodded, trying to make her more comfortable. "Now… General Pearce says you wish to convert to Anglicanism."

She frowned and said, "Is it really conversion if that was the church of your birth?"

He reacted with a small bit of surprise. "You are British by birth?"

"I am," she confirmed.

"How did you come to convert to Orthodoxy?"

"My husband's mother was Greek, and his father converted in order to marry her – they were banned from the succession but George and Christian were raised Orthodox and were brought back into the family when their parents died," Ruth said softly. She had heard the tale many times, from many sources, and the scandal still rang true throughout the dynasties of Europe. And George's marriage to the daughter of a mere Duke of Britain had been a scandal of its own making. "I converted to marry him." She did not dare to speak how she felt about that betrayal.

"And your children are Orthodox?"

Ruth shook her head. "They have been raised Anglican," she said quickly. "My father wished it; my son, Henry, is his heir."

"The politics of the aristocracy go right over my head," Malcolm confessed. "Why can we not just live in peace as God wishes us to? Instead, we wed for wealth, power –"

"Because of shame," Ruth interjected softly.

"But you wish to come back to the fold, so are you yet ashamed?" Malcolm questioned gently.

"I only want four things in this world," Ruth whispered. "I want my children to grow up happily. I want my name back. I want to practice my faith in the way I see fit. And I want to keep my promise."

"I can give you back your right to practice your faith," Malcolm said, "and I can likewise give you back your name – if that is what you wish."

She nodded eagerly. "I wish it," Ruth said firmly. "And you will help me keep my promise."

"Your Highness, I cannot help you keep a promise if I know not what it is," Malcolm said in an equally firm tone. "I will not be complicit in –"

"I made a promise many years ago that I would marry General Pearce," Ruth interjected. "And I must make that promise a reality before I return to Britain. Or it will never happen. He will be killed in battle or I will be passed off again like a token and forced to marry the next available man of title and money – and I will not do it again. I will not allow my father to dictate my life now."

"Your father is…?"

"Philip Evershed, Duke of Whiting. Fleet Admiral, retired." She eyed him warily. "Or, at least, that is the man who gave me a name and a home. My mother's affair with King Edward VII was the stuff of discreet legend, and my brother and I were both born of that… alliance."

Malcolm swallowed heavily and said, "I begin to see the situation more clearly. You wish to be out from under your father's thumb, but seek to keep your son in his good graces as the heir."

"And I cannot give in to any royal demands made of me," Ruth said softly. "Because there is already precedent for my being compliant. I don't care for the money or the gowns or the jewels… what use are they when you cannot feel love as you are meant to feel it?" She looked up at him from her daughter's small face. "What use are all the jewels in the world if they are a gilded cage to parade you around in? I am fluent in nine languages and I have read far more than is proper for any lady of standing. No one cared about that – no one but Harry – they only cared for my father's money and social standing. I cannot continue in a world that looks upon me with derision and despair for being a nobody from nowhere. Harry has only ever looked at me with adoration… and love."

There was a long beat of silence, then he said, "Your name is Ruth. Lady Ruth Evershed. The King's bastard… in love with a man who is broken beyond repair."

"That's about the sum of it," she said, her voice low and soft. "I am not worthy of God's forgiveness, but I am told I will still receive it –"

"At the gates of Heaven, all men are equal," Malcolm said gently, "and as you know your own mind so clearly, My Lady, I would be honored to give you what you wish."

She smiled and then hesitated. "How did you know my name was Ruth?"

"I've been with General Pearce for quite some time," Malcolm said. "He is a very private man, but even in the face of death, he could not keep you a secret. He cried for you when he was fevered from malaria."

She felt her heart sink. "I should have been there – I should never have…" Her voice trailed off. "I cannot change the past. And I've hurt him so very badly."

"Forgive my impertinence… but instead of dwelling in the past, where you've both endured such pain, mayhaps you should build castles of pleasure and happiness in the future instead?" Malcolm suggested.

A smile graced her lips. "I think… a castle will be far more than we can afford on the salary of an exiled soldier," she said softly. "But a cottage… I think a cottage in the country with a view of the sea would be quite lovely."

* * *

26 June, 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British camp

* * *

"Do you, Ruth Evershed von Glucksburg, take this man, Henry James Pearce, to be your lawfully wedded husband?" Malcolm inquired.

"I do," Ruth exhaled quickly.

The ceremony was bare-bones, abrupt, hasty. They had received a telegram from London that morning via Juliet Shaw from Ruth's father, demanding her return to Britain as soon as humanly possible. Ruth had likewise demanded a few things; her hasty conversion, the restoration of her name – Sofia Victoria was no more – and lastly, a marriage ceremony. The Carters served as witnesses, and Harry had been bemused by her insistence on the quick service officiated by Malcolm. But he had not denied her wishes, knowing her motives were to protect them all.

Their vows were simple and plain, their hearts given freely… and Ruth felt a sudden sense of completeness that she'd never felt before. She knew that this was what she was meant to have done before, and her guilty heart and conscience would not ever come clean. But she could make Harry happy for the time she had him, however brief a time it might be.

She blinked in surprise when he kissed her at the end of the ceremony – knowing that he was a private man and he might not wish to display such affection in public.

Fiona came over with Elena in her arms. "Someday, preferably soon, you will have to tell me how all of this has come to pass," she said sternly. "But for now, Adam and I will keep your children overnight and allow you and the General to spend the evening alone. I hear that you will be accompanied back to England by Lady Shaw."

"Rather unfortunately for them, yes," Harry spoke up with a sigh. "It was the best we could do on short notice. They will travel to Callais with the Red Cross, and then take a hospital ship across the Channel. From Dover, I assume they will take a train to London, where they will be met at King's Cross by the Duke of Whiting."

"The Duke of Whiting? How posh," Fiona laughed. "Well, we will miss you," she said with a smile. "You will have to write – and when I come home in a few month's time, we will have to see one another."

Ruth smiled and said, "Yes, we shall."

"Mama," Marie said softly, "are we going home tomorrow?"

Ruth hesitated, then got down on her knees next to the small girl. "We aren't ever going home again," she whispered. "But we're going to a new place that I hope will become home for us."

Marie's lower lip wobbled and her eyes filled with tears. "But – but what about –"

"Everything will be new and different and scary," Ruth said gently. "But we'll all be together. We can face anything together, love."

"But what about Mister Harry?" Marie asked.

Henry sighed and said, "Marie, he's not going to come with us. Just because mama married him doesn't mean he can leave the war."

"Who will give me sweeties?" Marie asked anxiously. "Papa used to give them to me, and now Mr. Harry – but –"

"Grandfather will give you sweeties, love," Ruth promised softly, glad that her daughter was still small enough that things like candy was upsetting, rather than the all too real fear of losing someone close to her. She was too young to remember George being shot in front of them, but Henry was still traumatized by the sound of gunfire. It would do him a lot of good to be as far away from the front lines as possible. Scotland would be a safe haven for them, and if that went away, she would find another.

"Henry, you'll be a good lad and look after your mother and your sisters, won't you?" Harry said.

"You're not my father," Henry said curtly. "You cannot tell me what to do, even if I'd do it anyway." The boy scowled at him, and Ruth didn't have the courage to step between them to defend Harry.

Fortunately, her new husband merely smiled wryly and saluted his son. "Yes, sir," he said, without a trace of irony or mocking. "But you will look after them?"

"I always do," Henry said with the disdain that only a child could muster. "Come on, Marie – let's go play."

Marie trotted up to Harry and tugged on his hand. "May I have a sweetie, Mister Harry?" she asked. "Please?" He gave her a lemon drop and the children and the Carters were on their way, leaving Ruth and Malcolm.

"I'm needed at the Red Cross camp," Malcolm finally said. "So I will bid you both adieu and wish the new Mrs. Pearce good health for her journey."

"Malcolm," Ruth said softly, "thank you. For everything you've done for us – I know it must go against your morality in some ways –"

Malcolm shook his head and said, "As long as you two are happy, I will be glad my small part in helping bring it to pass. Now, I really do have to go." He saluted Harry, then was away in a flash.

Harry was very quiet for a moment, then he said, "Well… we're off to a good start. Our son hates me. I'm afraid it's par for the course."

"He doesn't hate you," Ruth murmured. "He just… he loved George very dearly. And he was there when it happened. I don't think he wants to put his faith in another father figure just yet, for fear that he will lose them as well." She came forward and sank into Harry's embrace, feeling as though she was falling all over again. He was so much larger than she was, so soft and comfortable, and just as she remembered him being. He was invincible, even though she knew the truth. She knew of the scars he hid, she knew of the time when he had been skin and bones coming back to Casablanca – thanks to Malcolm's stories of their trip through the Sahara and back again. And yet, somehow, she loved him even more for all the bloodstains and tattered edges of their past. "I'm terrified that these few days are all we'll have together," she admitted very quietly. "That you won't come home."

"I have something to live for now," he whispered, kissing the top of her head. "I will come home to you, Mrs. Pearce. And when I return, I will bring you a proper token of our marriage."

"You don't have to," she breathed. "Just come home to me in one piece."

* * *

1 July, 1916  
London  
England

* * *

The children were fascinated by the insane hustle and bustle of the train station. Ruth couldn't blame them – even St. Petersburg's great stations had not been so full of life. She kept them tucked close to her and kept her head down as she followed Lady Shaw through to where a driver was waiting to take them to Buckingham Palace.

The old familiar sights and sounds and smells of London floated around her, and she felt as though maybe she had never left in the first place; nothing was altered. Only she had been changed by her life away, and now she had three children she was responsible to care for in the bargain. Life was certainly for the living.

They alit from the motorcar and were led inside by servants who wished to cater to their every whim. Ruth remembered such tricks from the other great palaces she had frequented, and she merely said, "I am sorry, but I do not understand why we are here."

"The King has requested to see you," Lady Shaw said as if that answered the question.

"Is my father here with the King?" Ruth inquired.

"He will be along," Lady Shaw said with a small smile. "But the King wished to speak to you privately."

Ruth hesitated, biting her lip nervously, then she turned to a servant and said, "My son and daughter would like something to eat. And I shall require a bottle of milk for my wee lass. If I am to meet the King, I will not allow my children to go hungry in the meanwhile." If it was to be her last day seen as a Princess of the Blood, so be it.

But she stood firm and proud as the wife of General Henry Pearce; and she would look her sovereign in the eye and tell him that their father had been so very wrong to cut him off and send him to his nearly certain death just for having the gall to touch her.

Or… she would, if she could ever get over the nagging feeling that no one wanted to listen to an outspoken, educated woman.


	12. Chapter 12

Sorry, life got to me and I wasn't feeling very creative. Hopefully this chapter will be worth the effort of reading it.

XII:

* * *

1 June, 1916  
Buckingham Palace  
London  
England

* * *

For all of her training in the ways of royal courts, the absurd silence was what unnerved Ruth the most. Once you were away from the tittering of the hecklers and the lobbyists and the courtesans, it was so terribly silent in a royal palace, with cavernous spaces meant to intimidate and offer the crown dominance. She waited in the empty room, assuming the worst of the possible outcomes already awaited her: a harsh judgement and a swift dismissal into exile.

For, as much as she was thrilled to bits to be Harry Pearce's wife (at bloody last), she had acted without approval or sanction from her monarch – be it the Danish one or the English one. And such actions had consequences. That the English king happened to be her natural brother had no bearing one way or the other, and she knew that she was treading dangerous ground.

The door burst open and King George came into the room. "Cousin," he greeted in his firm, crisp voice. "Well met – you do not look to be in very good health."

"Captivity changes a person, Your Majesty," Ruth greeted, dipping low into a curtsey. "My children have fared better than I have, I am afraid. War is a terrible thing."

"It is a terrible thing," George replied, "but sometimes it is a necessary evil."

Ruth bit her tongue; it simply would not do to contradict him. "You summoned me," she said softly, changing the subject.

"Yes, I wished to see if your intent was to stay in Britain or if you would seek to find your fortunes elsewhere," he said, appraising her with a stare that booked no argument. "George being my distant cousin, I believe that I must do what I can for his children –"

Ruth hesitated, then said, "I am not sure, sire, of where we will take shelter. My father may not wish us to stay with him. We are… not on the best of terms."

The King seemed to stare right through her. "I know why," he said. "And I cannot say that I blame him for his decisive action. Nor my father." He paused, then his eyes narrowed. " _Our_ father," he amended. "Believe me, I know the stories and I know which ones hold truth."

"Then you should know that I have come back to the Church of England," Ruth said quickly, "and I have taken my name back. I cannot live as a princess when I feel as though I am no such thing."

"You are a lady of quality, despite being a by-blow," he said with something akin to respect in his tone. "And I know that they only meant to protect you."

"I didn't need protection," she said, her tone sharper and more scathing than she'd intended it to be. "I don't need protection. I survived being a prisoner of war," Ruth snapped. "I am not some debutante to be coddled and patted on the head and paraded about as a woman who does not know her own mind or how the world works. Maybe I was naïve then, but I am far from it now, Your Majesty. And I insist that you and my father respect that." Her hands were shaking, her mind racing ahead of her mouth. "And before you think to take me under your wing and marry me off to some country nobleman to keep me out of trouble, I am married already, to a man who believes me to be capable of caring for myself and my children. I left him behind in France, and I pray every moment that he will not be killed – that he will come home safely to me."

"Surely you weren't foolish enough to wed one of your captors," he said.

"No," she said quickly, attempting to disabuse him immediately of the very notion. "No, the man who brokered our release – General Henry James Pearce."

There was a long silence, then the King said, "I suppose that you are completely blind to the position you've put me in."

She set her jaw stubbornly. "Not completely, no. I feign no ignorance as to knowledge of what _our_ father did to him," Ruth said in a dark tone. "He might as well have attempted to kill him outright the way he went about it."

"The intention was not to kill him, but to punish him for his misdeeds."

"Harry's only misdeed was to court me," she said; it was all she could do to keep her temper in check.

"Defiance is not attractive in a woman."

"No, it isn't," she agreed, "and even worse is to be pushed into defiance by a man who only knows the words of a father who laid on hands only when it suited him. I have married him in the sight of God. It was done by a vicar in the field and witnessed by Brigadier Adam Carter and his wife, who is a nurse with the Red Cross. It is a legal marriage, and binding – and it cannot be undone unless we divorce… or you dissolve it." Ruth stood there, feeling every inch the mousy young woman she had once been, but she was so much older, so much wiser, and ever so much more stubborn. She would not give in. But when he did not speak, she added, "I beg of you, Your Majesty, not to repeat the mistakes of our fathers. Please."

And, for a moment, she forgot to breathe.

* * *

26 June, 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British camp

* * *

"So we've done it," Harry commented as the tent flap came down behind them and was tied off from the inside to discourage entry. "We've actually gone and done the impossible – we've been married."

"It wasn't impossible," Ruth murmured, "just… very improbable." She twined her fingers with his, loving how strong his grip was against her flesh; his hands were so much larger than hers, just like the rest of him. Even after starvation and near death in Africa, and a near death experience in France, he was still a robust man of action. She would not want him to be anything but: it was a part of him, and perhaps the best part. "But I am very, very glad that it did happen."

"I am not," Harry said, his eyes darkening.

"Well, blame yourself," she shot back. "You're the one who proposed –"

"I am not glad that you are married to me," he countered, "because I am a selfish old man and you are a vibrant woman with the best years of your life to look forward to…"

"Stop it," she murmured, squeezing his hand tighter and bringing it to her lips for a gentle kiss. "Stop, Harry, please. The best years of my life mean nothing if I don't spend them with you. I never believed, for a moment, that I made a mistake in loving you – no matter what my father and godparents thought."

He pulled his hand away and muttered, "Foolish sentiments…"

"Harry, you don't mean that," she said with the staunch conviction of a woman who believed. And a believer was a dangerous partner indeed.

"Don't I?" he challenged. "You'll lose everything now – your husband's money, your title, the houses and the jewels and the –"

"You never promised me a grand house or exotic furs or jewels," she reminded him gently. "You made no promises to me aside from that I would be loved. And I will keep you to that – but with the addendum that you just show my children the same regard."

"Do you think me to be so callous –"

"No, but I know that taking on my family will not be easy." She smiled sadly. "I wish… that we had been able to stay together. Maybe things would be different now."

"I am a man in exile – I serve His Majesty –"

"Your loyalty to a man whose father stabbed you in the back is commendable," Ruth breathed, "but you and I both know at what cost it comes. So we must be brave, together, or we must be frightened and alone. And I prefer together."

He exhaled and muttered, "Ruth, I –"

"I am not the naïve little girl you bedded," she countered. "I am broken and I have suffered unimaginable things, Harry. Things I can't begin to explain to you. You have no idea. You don't understand that you make me feel safe; like everything will be all right again."

"It won't be –"

"Don't talk to me like I am a child," she snapped. "I am not naïve and I am not foolish. This time, I will fight for what is mine. And you are mine. Mine, Harry. You are _my_ husband."

There was no hesitation left between them; his lips crashed against hers with the force of a tsunami, and he pulled her close, flush against him. His intent was possession, and who was she to disillusion him when she wanted to mark him as hers as well?

And she prayed, Lord how she prayed, that come the end of the war, he would come home to her and they could live their lives in peace.

* * *

19 March, 1905  
Drury House  
London

* * *

Harry found himself bored with the weak punch, the lousy food, and the insipid company. Of the seven balls he had attended since his arrival in London, Lady Westchester's gala was the worst of them all. He felt his nose wrinkle in disgust when he saw one of the hostess's toy poodles pissing on a potted plant, and he began to turn away from the corner.

But a soft voice calling to the small dog in French made him pause. Of course, he knew the language – officers in the Army were expected to know French, German, and as much Hindi as they could wrap their heads around – but the voice enchanted him. He turned back to see a petite brunette in a dark grey evening dress bending low to the ground to pet the dog, a smile on her lips and such joy in her eyes.

Something deep in his gut tightened; he felt the stirrings of emotions long held back, dormant, begin to rise up, and he knew he should fight them – he knew he should not subject such an innocent, sweet girl to his lustful appetites. He was a man reformed by divorce, scandal, and –

The young woman rose back to her feet and reached delicately into her handbag for a fan.

He turned before she could notice he was staring.

Only to run into Constance Beauchamp, who had not been ignorant of his direction of gaze. "Lady Constance –"

Connie smirked at him knowingly. "For the right price, even my niece will succumb," she murmured close to his ear, bringing back fond memories of erotic dalliances past, when the world had been simpler and he had cared less for consequences and the word 'no'. "Come, let's negotiate over a tumbler of punch."

"No punch," he muttered. "And I am not in the market for a wife."

"So you said when you met Jane," Connie teased, taking his arm. "And so you said when you seduced me straight out of my husband's arms, dear Harry – you've not changed a bit."

He felt a sudden pang of disgust and pain when he realized that her words struck true. He was still the same selfish man he had always been, a thin veneer of charm his only defense against the world. And no young woman should be saddled to him.

But the pang of sharp desire did not abate.


	13. Chapter 13

XIII:

* * *

1 July, 1916  
Buckingham Palace  
London  
England

* * *

"Ruth," George said gently but frankly, "though I cannot condone the way you have wed – and a man who has inspired my parent's wrath so deeply – it would also be so very petty of me to force you to annul the marriage. Of course, you will lose your title of Serene Highness and –"

"Titles do not concern me," Ruth said softly. "They never have. It concerned Papa greatly, but then he forced me to marry above my station and… yes."

"I can extend to you, as illegitimate daughter of the late king, a small stipend per annum," he said. "For your comfort, assuming the Duke of Whiting does not take you in."

"Will my husband be allowed re-entry into England at the end of his service?" Ruth asked irritably. "I don't ask for myself, but for him. He has been concerned that he would not be allowed –"

"He has been in exile, at the will of my father. I am not the same man, and it would be disappointing to me if I was held to the same standards of immorality and compassion he inflicted upon the populace," George snapped. "General Pearce will receive full honors upon his return, and his salary paid out in full. He has served us faithfully and without complaint, no matter the assignment."

Ruth hesitated, then said, "He is a good man, my Harry – no one believes that."

"I am sorry, Ruth," he said softly. "I am sorry that you have endured so much in the name of propriety, and I cannot do more to make amends than this." He frowned, then sighed. "My father was not exactly a man renowned for his… frugality. And your mother was not the first, nor the last."

"No," Ruth agreed, "but she was one of his favorites."

He smiled wanly. "Yes, she was. Have you heard anything from your brother since he was disowned?"

Ruth inhaled sharply, then murmured, "He died. Before the war. Papa doesn't know. He wouldn't want to."

"I am sorry."

"So am I," Ruth sighed. "I am sorry to be such a trouble to you, sire."

"You are no trouble," the King said gently. "And your father is waiting to see you. He has been quite worried for some time about you –"

"About my son," Ruth contradicted. "He cares about his heir, not me."

"I would beg to differ," George said. "But God forbid I argue with a lady," he teased.

"I am no lady," Ruth murmured. "Not anymore."

"When your husband becomes Sir Henry, you will again be Lady Ruth."

She made an impolite face. "I suppose I should see Papa and get it over with."

"You make it sound as if it is a torture."

"It may well be," Ruth mumbled.

* * *

27 June, 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British camp

* * *

Ruth startled awake, unsure when she'd actually fallen asleep. And she was also unsure how deeply she'd been asleep, or how long she had been unconscious. Harry's arm around her waist was warm and made her feel cozy and comfortable, but it did not keep her heart from hammering in her ears with anxiety and fear. She closed her eyes again and tried not to cry. She was married to the man she had loved since she was but a girl, but she still felt as though she was trapped in a nightmare she could not escape.

"Ruth?" Harry whispered against her skin. "What's wrong?"

"Why are you awake?" she murmured.

"Why are you not asleep?" he countered softly.

"I'm going away and won't see you for I don't even know how long," she sighed. "Why would I sleep when I can hold you and pretend that the war isn't going on just a few miles away?"

He laughed and kissed the curve of her shoulder. "You make a good point," he breathed. "We should make the most of the few hours we have left before dawn… and when you're stolen away from me again."

"The difference is that I'm yours now," she said softly. "And I will not give that up without a fight. It's not ladylike, but George taught me to defend myself. I won't give in and I won't give you up again, my darling."

"I'm no darling," he chuckled. "But it is nice to know that you care."

"Of course I care," she sighed. "I love you. I have since… since you took me out on the ballroom floor and danced with me. Since you smiled at me and you said that you wanted me. No one ever… even my mother." She tucked her face into his chest and held on for dear life. "I've never… known love like this, like with you. Not ever."

"Neither have I," he muttered into her hair, kissing the top of her head. "By rights, I should hate you –"

"Please don't," she whispered.

"I don't – I cannot," Harry groaned, tangling his fingers in her hair. "I dare not resist you, Ruth – you are the siren of my undoing. I would follow you to the very edge of the earth and beyond."

"Good thing the world is round," she murmured, kissing his chest. "No imminent risk of falling."

"Promise you'll write to me, Ruth," he sighed, his grip on her waist strengthening.

"Every day," she promised, "and twice on Sundays. And I will pray every day for your safe return."

"And you will tell me if… you become indelicately indisposed?"

Ruth laughed. "Harry, love, I'm not sure there's even a need to worry," she said with bitter mirth. "I've not had a very good record of childbirth."

"You have three live children," he pointed out.

"And far more deceased," she threw back. "I've lost five, Harry. Either stillborn or they came far too early to live longer than a few minutes. I'm terrified of quickening again." She inhaled deeply and squeezed her eyes shut tightly. "I am so frightened that you will look at me the same way George did: with pity and despair. I… I can't live with that again."

He tilted her chin up and waited for her to open her eyes and look at him. "Ruth," Harry whispered, "I do not pity you, but I grieve your losses. And if we are to be blessed with another child, we would love it no matter how long it was to live. And if I do not make it back to England –"

"You will," Ruth said sharply. "You cannot die here."

"Nothing in life is certain," he responded gently. "But I will be forever grateful that you decided to love an old soldier…"

She pulled herself and looked down at him. "Enough of that nonsense," Ruth said in a firm, no-nonsense tone. "We've waited eleven years for tonight and I can't fathom a single reason why we should make ourselves more miserable when we should be happy."

"I am very happy," Harry said, pulling her down for a kiss – which very quickly got intense. Ruth could only praise her lucky stars that he had been well-trained as a libertine, as he passed those years of knowledge directly to her in the form of blissful pleasures she knew many men did not visit upon their wives and lovers. She briefly wondered if that was the kind of man the King had been to her mother, but then she struck the thought from her mind entirely.

"So am I," she murmured breathlessly between kisses. His hand slid up her thigh, resting on her bare bottom, his fingertips drumming gently against her skin. She whimpered softly and tried to put her fears, her worries, all of the 'what ifs' and the predictions of the future out of her mind just to focus on him, on her, on them.

Dawn was coming so quickly, and with it, her departure. And she wanted nothing more than to please him in the time they had left together.

* * *

29 June, 1916  
France  
near the coast

* * *

Lady Shaw looked over at Ruth with disdain. "Can't you make the baby be quiet?" she asked in annoyance. "It's done nothing but cry since it ate."

"She," Ruth said sharply. "She isn't used to eating her fill yet, and it upsets her stomach." She was trying to up-end Elena the way that Harry had, but she wasn't strong enough. The months of captivity, no sleep, and constant abuse were catching up with her and she was exhausted and weak, even after having good food and some sleep. But she always felt that she needed to keep one eye behind her and one eye ahead in case of an ambush.

"Oh, give her here," Juliet ordered brusquely. "You're one of those useless mothers who wouldn't know how to make a baby stop crying if you had an instruction manual." She took Elena and pounded roughly on her back until the baby forcibly belched. "There. Children are sturdier than you give them credit for, Your Highness." She handed Elena back, then added, "One would believe that you would already know that, seeing as how this is your third."

Ruth glared at her. "I don't see how my parenting skills are any of your business," she snapped. "Henry and Marie are perfectly behaved and do as they are asked. Elena is too small to know any better than this."

Juliet snorted and reached into her pocket to retrieve a cigarette case. Once she'd lit up, she glanced back at Ruth. "You do know he's playing you, don't you? Harry Pearce. He doesn't do affection. He's a man of action and high lusts. Love is not in his cards. He will drop you as soon as he's gotten his fill of you and the children."

Ruth was already on-edge, and Juliet's smug superiority coupled with her nerves about the Channel crossing and what lay in store for her on the other side nearly pushed her over the edge. "I would take great care with your words and how freely you give them, Lady Shaw," Ruth said in a clipped tone. "One might mistake cruel intentions."

Juliet smirked and said, "Dear Princess Sofia… I would not ever dare act with cruel intentions toward my betters. But I would take great care to knock my equals back into their proper position beneath my thumb. I know who you are: Lady Ruth Evershed."

Ruth smirked back and said, "There you are quite mistaken, Lady Shaw. I am Mrs. Ruth Pearce, and a princess no longer. And I am neither your equal, nor your superior."

"You're just another one of Harry's whores," Juliet spat.

Ruth's lips puckered in distaste. "I am his wife," she said simply. "And that must make you one of Harry's women."

That was enough to strike the venomous woman into silence.

A silence that Ruth was grateful for.

* * *

1 July, 1916  
Buckingham Palace  
London  
England

* * *

"Lord Evershed, your prodigal daughter has returned," the King announced as he and Ruth breezed into the room where Admiral Philip Evershed waited with his charts and graphs. "I've had rather an enlightening conversation with her, and have given my blessing to her recent marriage."

Philip looked up with alarm. "Marriage? Ruth, explain yourself!"

"Papa, calm down or you will give yourself a fit," Ruth scolded gently. "You look unwell enough as is."

"I have just spent _months_ negotiating your release and the best you can say is that I look unwell and bring me news of your _marriage_ ," Philip mocked. "Who is the lucky man you managed to ensnare? A German prince?"

Ruth jerked back as if she'd been slapped. "Who are you to say such horrible things?" she hissed. "How dare you say them in front of our King?"

"If not a German, who?" Philip spat angrily.

"I married a man of integrity and honor, who I know will treat me well," Ruth said very quietly. "Who should already have been my husband if you and my godparents had not schemed to bring it to an end before it could really begin."

Philip leveled a finger at the King. "You allowed _that man_ near her?" he bellowed.

" _That man_ ," George finally spoke up, "led the operation that saw the release of the hostages at Chateau Antoinette. You – _**we**_ – owe him a debt greater than the small sum of your daughter's hand in marriage. The intelligence gathered from the soldiers has already led to several successful incursions deeper into German territory. Do not dare, Admiral, to tell me that I should deny her happiness based merely on the fact that the man exists. I am not my father, nor am I likely to become like him." He glared at Philip until the older man backed down. "Now, if I may leave without blood being shed, I will retreat."

Ruth nodded and glanced at her father. He nodded, as well, and the King took his leave. Philip immediately rounded on her. "After all that I did to secure your well-being, this is how you repay me, Ruth? With lies and a marriage –"

"There were no lies," Ruth said softly. "I was faithful to George. His death… was terrible to live through. And I never expected to see Harry again."

"I should bloody well hope not," Philip hissed. "His postings were intentionally to keep him as far away from encountering you as possible. It would never have done to have had him claiming your son as his –"

"Henry is his son and he knows it," Ruth snapped. "I would not lie to him about such a thing, Papa. But he knows the importance of Henry being George's son, so he will not challenge it. Do you think that I am stupid? Do you honestly believe that I am capable of such… terrible things as you seem to be accusing me of? You are the one who disowned Peter for being homosexual – and he never forgave you, not even up to his dying day!"

"So your brother is dead, then?" Philip asked with vague interest.

"Yes, he is. And I am married to your worst enemy who does not wear the Kaiser's face," Ruth said sharply. "But I will not allow you to dictate who I will love and be allied to any longer. I played the game your way, Papa, and it made me a widow with children dead in the ground. Now it is time for me to reset the board and play the game my way. The King has given me his blessing. I don't expect the same from you, but I do expect you to respect my decision."

The anger radiating off of him in waves finally diffused and Philips ran his hands through his white hair in annoyance. "Rebellion is not an attractive trait in a female," he finally muttered.

"Maybe not," Ruth agreed, "however, when pushed to the edge, there is no action left to me but to rebel."

He scowled at her. "You will stay here in London for the rest of the week," he said firmly. "Then we will go north as a family, after arrangements have been wired ahead to prepare the estate for our arrival."

"You can leave London, then? Surely, there are more pressing matters to attend to than –"

He began to roll up a chart, then smiled with entirely too many teeth and no small amount of sarcastic malice. "My only purpose in London was to find a way to free my daughter and her family from the clutches of the Germans," Philip said. "My purpose concluded, I must retreat to the north and take some air before I become ill."

Ruth let that sink in, and she fell silent, suddenly very aware that she was rather ungrateful for his interference. That she might owe her father, who she had assumed hated her very being for the sin of having been born a bastard, her very life, made her feel queasy. And in that moment of clarity, she decided that he did not need to know how very late to the party he had been.

If he did not know already, one look at the sleeping Elena would tell him all he needed to know.

And they would forever more be looking over their shoulders, trying to keep a German prince from stealing the wee bairn back by virtue of her parentage. But for now… he could remain in the dark.

* * *

 _13 July, 1916  
_

 _My dearest Harry;_

 _We received word yesterday of the incursion that took Brigadier Carter's life. I am so very, terribly sorry for his loss. I was taking tea with Their Majesties when the telegram arrived and the King threw a cup across the room; Brigadier Carter was one of the Palace Guard and they were friends, it seems. Please extend to Fiona my sincerest sympathies and tell her that if she is to come back to Britain, she must come north where I may employ her as my companion and thus support her and young Wesley._

 _I live in constant fear that I will receive such a telegram saying that you have been killed, or worse, wounded. I say wounded is worse because the risk of infection and the pains of healing are so much worse than being killed outright._

 _Marie has finally trained Papa to carry peppermints in his pockets. She is sadly disappointed that the sweeties are not lemondrops, but I have reminded her that when you come home, she may have all the lemondrops you can carry in your pockets._

 _We are traveling to Scotland tomorrow; I will enclose the estate's address._

 _I love you and miss you dreadfully, Harry. I dream of our nights together and I pray for the day we are reunited. Please spare me a thought now and again._

 _XOXOXOX,  
your own Ruth_

* * *

 _29 June, 1916_

 _My own Ruth,_

 _You have not been gone long enough to leave a hole in my heart, yet here it remains._

 _My love to the children._

 _Harry_


	14. Chapter 14

XIV:

* * *

3 July, 1905  
Rosewood Townhouse  
London  
England

* * *

The dead of night, when all the servants had discreetly adjourned to their beds and most of London had gone quiet (aside from the raucous parties at the palace and the balls in the better quarter), was Ruth's favorite part of the day. It was quiet, silent, and she could be content with her quiet thoughts. Which, at the moment, were all focused upon Harry and the weathered roughness of his skin beneath her fingers.

"I know that in Kenya, we will not have much say in where we live," she murmured, "but when we return to London…?"

Harry chuckled and said, "I should be up front in saying that I am not well-born."

"I know you aren't," she muttered. "That is part of papa's objection. You do not have enough money in your coffers to keep me in the lifestyle he's raised me in."

"Your father objects because I seduced your mother," Harry said with a sigh.

She fell silent for a long moment, then tugged on his chest hair roughly. "You might have told me," Ruth hissed in annoyed pride. "Before or after your friend did?"

"Ouch! Before – long before – Christ, I introduced the bloody woman to him," Harry spluttered. "Your mother and I grew up in the same parish. She had a dalliance with my brother when we were all quite young. I confess only that I was a libertine in my youth –"

"I am beginning to rethink holding you in my affections," Ruth said haughtily. "You rather are the sort of man that I have been warned of…"

"I am that man no longer," Harry said firmly. "I have a ruined marriage, two children who despise my very existence, and I cannot continue to live my life hell-bent on destruction."

"So you come after me because I am young and stupid – is that your game?" she challenged softly, her voice suffused with hurt.

"I am not playing a game," Harry snapped, grabbing her wrist before she could tweak his chest hair again. He rolled on top of her, pinning her to the bed, his hips flush with hers, speaking of pleasures already spent. "Do you think I would pursue a slip of a girl – who is younger even than my own daughter – if I did not feel such admirant desire for her?"

She squirmed beneath him, then gave up her struggle to be free again. "I don't dare postulate upon your motives, sir, seeing as how you have already spoiled me for any other man –"

"You entered into the spoiling of your own free will, Ruth," he said softly. "I took pleasure with your mother once, long before you were born. We were both newly married and… unhappy. And we did not find what we needed in one another. I did not, could not, care for her in the way that I care for you."

"You barely know me," she said, tilting her chin with the arrogance of the upper class. "How do you know how you care for me?"

"I am a damnable sight older than you," he said with a sigh. "And I have known love, and lust, and everything in between." Harry paused, the silence burning. "I have never known the feeling you inspire within me; and I know that, surely, if it were to be denied me, I would die of want of it."

"Pretty words to keep me snared in your web," Ruth protested, but her offense was already fading away.

"If you did not wish to be here, I would release you to the winds and the skies," he said, his voice low and sad. "And I would watch you from afar, hoping that you would be happy."

She bit her lip and frowned. "I would not be happy without you," Ruth admitted.

He leaned in and kissed her gently. She gave herself willingly, again, hoping he was not just using her to some end she knew not of.

* * *

21 September, 1916  
Mountain View Manor  
Scottish Lowlands  
15 miles from Stirling

* * *

Ruth came down the staircase slowly, one step at a time, looking as exhausted and unwell as she felt. She knew she presented a terrible sight, but she moved forward nonetheless. "Fiona," she greeted softly, embracing her friend. "I am glad you've come to stay."

Fiona looked her up, then down, then said, "Who has died?"

Ruth hesitated a moment. "Elena," she said, choking up again. "The doctor called it 'failure to thrive'."

"Well, that tells you beyond nothing," Fiona scoffed. "Did he check –"

"It is as good a diagnosis as any other," Ruth murmured. "She is gone now – just three days past."

"I'm sorry – I'm so sorry…" Fiona shook herself, then put her hand on her son's shoulder. "This is Wesley. I've brought him with me because… well, my parents have decided they are through being understanding of my need to follow my husband. He is gone, and so I must find a way in the world with my son."

Ruth nodded and smiled. "Hello, Wes," she said in a gentle tone. "You're about my Henry's age – I think the two of you will get on splendidly." She held out her hand and the boy smiled a little, then kissed it. "Oh, my, you're quite the charmer…"

"It is polite the way papa taught me," Wesley said. "May I meet Henry?"

"Wouldn't you rather have some dinner first?" Ruth inquired. "It has been such a long journey for you both –"

"Will your father have an issue with that?" Fiona asked.

Ruth shrugged. "My father went down to Balmoral," she said. "It doesn't matter, either way, if he has an issue or he does not. He is learning that I am going my own way now." She smiled and added, "Now, if only this blasted war would end…"

Fiona studied her for a long moment, then said, "Has something else happened?"

"It is nothing I cannot handle on my own," Ruth said softly. "Now, we must get you both some dinner – Henry and Marie have already eaten."

"And yourself?" Fiona inquired.

Ruth shrugged. "I might take some bread and butter," she said, trying not to let her voice waver, to give anything away. If she had learned anything from her years of misery, it was to never let on that you were suffering until it all became too much to bear.

Cook was flagged down and dinner laid out – a cold, spartan supper of meats, cheeses, and pickles paired with warm, fresh bread from the ovens. Fiona and Wesley ate with gusto and great relish, as if it were the best meal they'd been graced with for days; and really, when one was traveling by rail, it probably was. Ruth picked at some beef tongue and a piece of bread, unable to stomach the cheese or, really, much of anything.

Despite having very recently lost the baby carefully nestled in her womb, her body still ached with the loss and her stomach still roiled with disgust at the thought of food. Adding Elena had just been another misery. She felt very small and alone; and no words were adequate to tell Harry of the duality of the loss.

Besides, would he not be comforted that she had lost the child that had not been his? The children who were the bastards of a German murderer and rapist? Best to keep her silence, to mourn in peace. They had been a piece of her, yes, but she did not outweigh the shame and stigma of their conceptions, their very being.

Fiona was looking at her oddly. "M'lady," she said in a soft tone, "I think you should eat. You don't look at all well."

"I don't feel at all well," Ruth admitted. "Grimes, will you please escort the Carters upstairs to the nursery? And then to their rooms when the time comes? I'm going to rest."

She made her way back upstairs, let her maid coddle and gently cajole her, all the while feeling like she was a prisoner in her own gilded cage. The darkness of night was a quiet respite; she looked forward to the oblivion it offered.

But she knew as certainly as she knew the sun would rise the next morning that she was sitting out in the center of a lake comprised of thin ice. Any sudden motions and her world would splinter, shattering beneath her and sending her straight to her doom.

She wished, most ardently, that she had never fallen in love.

Maybe then, her heart would not ache so.

* * *

1 August, 1916  
France  
near the Trenches  
British camp

* * *

Harry finished his morning briefings and settled in to read his correspondence – he'd been thrilled witless, and hard-pressed to hide that fact, to see a letter in Ruth's fair hand waiting for him in the pile of nonsense from England. Of course, needs must, and he read the letters from his commanding officers – which contradicted the orders given via wireless – and the King, first and foremost.

 _Bloody fool man, far more sentimental than his father_. That was Harry's general assessment of the King. Of course, then again, George had not ever been a child of more fascinating habits. No, that had been the Duke of Clarence. That lad had been ripe and full of promise in the ways of the world much like his father had been. He would have been a slack-jawed idiot of a king, however, and Harry much preferred the world as it was now. Any other succession would quite probably have spelled disaster in the trenches. A morally stable, upright kind of a monarch was just the leader the troops seemed to need right at the moment… though they were beginning to chafe at the bit with want of women.

He had seen the Red Cross begin to dismantle their camp, whether to move it to another location or to abolish the trench-side hospital altogether, he was not certain. Aside from the incursion, there had been no other major breeches of the lines, and he could only surmise that they were nervous of so many ladies of virtue – _of all kinds_ – so very near the troops.

He was especially concerned about Mrs. Carter; since her husband's death, she had been cold, calculating, working on instinct and coffee alone. The poor woman did not sleep, and every time he saw her, his worry had increased. She needed to be at home in England, away from the spectre of war, away from the gruesome need to sew limbs back onto young men who were barely of an age to consume their alcohol, let alone pick up a gun.

He broke the wax seal on Ruth's letter and read it quickly. She spoke of the beauty of the Lowlands during the storms of summer, of how Henry's lessons were progressing, of how Marie was learning to read. And he could read between the lines; she was lonely and afraid of being alone. He could not blame her: so much of his darling Ruth's life had been spent alone and longing for a kindred heart to console her.

And here he was, away at the front, fighting in a cause he no longer believed in, leading men to their deaths by the score in a ridiculous show… when he should have been by her side, reveling in her children's accomplishments.

He also noticed that she did not mention Elena. Whether by omission borne of shame, or omission borne of loathing of the child, he could not fathom. Such a sweet little babe she was… despite the circumstances of her birth. He would be glad to call her his daughter, if it made her mother feel better about herself and their relationship. But to openly claim her in a letter that might easily be intercepted – by any side – was not the way to go about such things.

He glanced up to see Mrs. Carter lingering in the doorflap of his tent. "Mrs. Carter, thank you for coming –"

"Thank you for inviting me, General," she said in that soft, familiar voice. "I'm sure by now you've heard that I'm returning to England."

"I have," he said. "As I have expected you to announce for some time since the incursion. Won't you please come and sit? We have much to discuss."

"Do we?" Mrs. Carter inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"I think we do," he said.

Nearly an hour later, they had come to terms; Fiona would retrieve her son from her parents' grasp, then she would away to Scotland, where she would be Ruth's faithful companion. All the while, receiving a hefty sum from General Pearce to spy on Admiral Evershed and his cronies, who stood to profit if the war was perpetuated. It was a sly undertaking at the behest of the King – of all people – and ran a path near treasonous grounds. If they could prove that someone in the top of the military brass was colluding with the other side in the near-stalemate… dear sweet merciful God, they could bring the war to its very knees.

Fiona, it turned out, was well-suited to espionage, and undertook her assignment without a second thought.

Harry, however… Harry knew that if Ruth found out there was a snake in the grass, she might not be able to resist pulling up her skirts and screaming impotently like the others – in spite of all her learning.

He was on very dangerous ground.


	15. Chapter 15

XV:

* * *

29 September, 1916  
Mountain View Manor  
Scottish Lowlands  
15 miles from Stirling

* * *

Ruth resented her father for bringing home guests. They were in mourning; yes, for her bastard child born out of wedlock, but still, Elena had existed. She had been as much a part of the family as any of her other children, and Harry had been fond of the wee thing. Ruth pushed aside thoughts of him holding their own child to his breast and speaking softly to the child – it was irrelevant and painful to think of such things now.

The point being, upon his return from Balmoral, her father had brought guests with him, and she was meant to entertain them. Nevermind that she loathed Sir Oliver and Lady Mace with every fiber of her being; nay, she must bite her tongue and remind herself that it had been Rosalind Myers who had spied on her in London and ratted her out to her father. How Ros had found out she had been sneaking between the houses was anyone's guess, but her prize had been an introduction to the retired Admiral who had been her father's best friend – and some speculated lover – and his bloody clenched fist in matrimony. Ruth hoped they were both miserable together.

She swallowed hard and descended the stairwell, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. When she emerged into the sitting room, everyone looked up, including Fiona. "I am sorry," Ruth said softly. "Shall we proceed to dinner?"

Ros gave her a haughty look – a hawk-eyed eagle's stare that almost made Ruth flinch – and took her husband's arm indelicately, regardless of proper decorum. "I am certain your poor cook must be at her wit's end, trying to keep time with such tardiness," she scoffed in Philip's direction. "You never could keep her under control, could you?"

Sir Oliver laughed heartily, a sound that grated on Ruth's ears and made her sick to her stomach. There had been a time, a brief time, before George had been secured as a suitable husband that Mace had been brought up as a suitable mate, and Ruth had felt Henry turn horrified flips in her belly, sending her into a fit of vomiting and other horrors. The man had given her nightmares since she was a small girl; she could not fathom a life where she would have to wake beside him, feel him inside her, live with the fact that their children would carry the mark of their evil father.

"She is not mine to control now," Philip said in a semi-mocking tone.

Fiona gently took Ruth's elbow to steady her. "They are wrong," she breathed. "In every way, Lady Ruth. Do not let them think they can cow you. You have survived worse."

"I am tired of mere survival," Ruth exhaled weakly.

"Then don't survive," Fiona hissed. " _Live_. It's a totally different thing altogether."

"I need him," Ruth whispered.

"No," Fiona murmured firmly, "you do not. You are stronger than any man; even him. Now, hold your head high and remember that Mrs. Wattel likes you enough to overrule your father's menus in favor of yours. It's a start."

Ruth bit her lip, then exhaled shakily. "How did you become so wise?" she asked.

Fiona's lips ticked up into a smirk. "I was born in Covent Garden," she said. "Adam saved me from a life of… poverty and depravity. I owe him my life, but I cannot forget the lessons I learned there." Her smirk vanished. "Let's eat dinner, then find out what that odious man wants."

* * *

3 October, 1916  
Buckingham Palace  
London  
England

* * *

So many years before, this had been a place of pleasures, pomp, and circumstance to Harry Pearce. And even as he was invested as a Knight, he felt out of place. The King had recalled him to London for the week for the service and more in-depth discussion – ha, discussion, as if words would solve the ills of the world – about the possibility of subterfuge and sabotage within the ranks.

Harry knelt before his sovereign, keenly aware of the irony of having received medals at the hands of his grandmother and father before him, wondering if he was too old for such shenanigans now. He'd done his duty, and mayhaps it was time to quit while he was ahead.

He was congratulated heartily, even by those he knew to be envious gits. He looked around the court, expecting to see Ruth, but he did not. Surely, she would have received his letter – or even his telegram – saying that he would be there for a few days.

"Your Majesty," he said, gently taking the King aside, "have you heard anything of my wife?"

"I was told she was ill and could not possibly attend today's festivities," the King said. "They have kept to Stirling since August, aside from one trip to Balmoral when the PM was visiting the north."

Harry felt his face tick. "Did you not find it in the least suspicious that the PM was intent on going to Scotland?" he inquired icily.

"He is under a great deal of strain, Sir Harry, as are we all," the King said pointedly. "Balmoral is a place of retreat and peace –"

"And nearest the traitors' gates," Harry muttered irritably. "Pardon my absence, sir – I will be going on the next train north to see my wife."

"Pearce," the King said in a clipped, very precise tone, "I can take it all away as quickly as I have given it."

Harry smiled wryly and said, "Your Highness, I care nothing for the title – only for her." It was a bold declaration, brazen, unyielding. A lesser man would have cowered in the face of his master, but he merely scoffed at the idea of his master being his better in the first place.

For King and Country; those were the words he had lived by since he was but a young man. And maybe it was time to listen to the words of his heart instead; the words that he had struggled to keep quiet for so long.

* * *

4 October, 1916  
Mountain View Manor  
Scottish Lowlands  
15 miles from Stirling

* * *

It was beginning to rain as the members of the party arrived. Ruth privately hoped that the weather continued to be dismal for their shooting. God knew that ammunition was scarce and was meant to be conserved for the soldiers, not flaunted as a sign of wealth and power. Having a shooting party, even in the north, was disturbingly near treason. She watched through her window, eyes narrowed, lips pressed together with thin disdain, as men and women alike alit from their motorcars and carriages.

How many had he invited this time? Twenty? Thirty?

All to make the point that he was still just as powerful now as he had been before the war's inception. It made her sick to her stomach. She had heard things, things that set low upon her ears and made her wonder at her father's motivations… but he was still the man who had raised her, given her a name. And her suspicions must be kept quiet for the time being.

She turned away from the window, but turned back when the single light of an old coach caught the corner of her eye. The old coach from the railway station in Stirling… she knew it well. Fiona had taken the coach when she'd been called to London days before – her father was quite ill, perhaps even dying. And Ruth had been sullen and silent without her friend's encouragement.

She gathered her skirts and all but ran down the back stairs to where she was certain the coach would pull up outside the servants' entrance. But when the knock failed to come, she glanced around, confused, and rose up the steps into the main hall.

Ruth did not know what happened; the next thing she knew, someone was pressing smelling salts to her nose and she was coughing, inhaling deeply… Harry's scent. _Oh but her mind was playing such cruel tricks! Harry was in France, probably drinking wine and wondering why he had tied himself to her…_

"Stand back," Fiona all but snarled at the crowd that was pressing in on them. "Lady Ruth? Open your eyes for me – have you eaten anything today?" she asked worriedly. "Someone fetch a tray with broth and tea."

"You didn't tell me she was unwell."

Ruth's eyelids fluttered open and she moaned, "Harry? Are… are we in France?"

His hands – gentle only for her – caressed her cheeks, gently rubbing life back into her face. "No, my love, we're in bloody Scotland," Harry said softly. "You took one look at me and fainted dead away."

She looked up at him, the world still spinning. "You're here… how…?"

"Ruth, I demand you get up off the floor this instant!"

"Don't you dare speak to _my wife_ in that tone," Harry spat furiously.

Ruth carefully removed herself from Harry's grasp, somehow unconvinced that it was real – everything was fuzzy as if she was in a half-woken state – and rose to her feet, murmuring, "Yes, Papa – I'm sorry I embarrassed you in front of your guests."

She turned to head toward the stairs, convinced that she was hallucinating, when she felt Harry's arm come around her, offering her warmth, support, and love she felt she was undeserving of. "A bit of sweet tea and you'll be right as rain," he promised softly.

Once in her room, she shrugged off the apparition, annoyed that her fever dream seemed to be sticking with her. Of course Harry wasn't there – he was in France. And Fiona was in London. And she was seeing and hearing things from having fasted for days, praying for release from this hell. It was hell on earth, this place – she could not leave, not even to go into the village. She was not permitted exit unless it was to the gardens, and only with Fiona or her maid. She would rather starve to death than be an exotic parrot trapped in a gilt cage.

When she turned to face him, she felt such anger, fear, and desperation that she let the tears bubble up and carry her away. "Why must you torment me so?" she sobbed. "Why can you not leave me alone?"

The door swung open and Fiona burst in with a tray. "Mrs. Wattel says she's not taken any food or broth in days," she said abruptly. "I should never have left –"

"You had no way of knowing she would do this," Harry said in a sharp tone. "Don't blame yourself, Mrs. Carter." He prepared a cup of tea with entirely too much sugar, and Ruth flinched and drew away from them both, sniffling and indelicately wiping her nose on her glove like a child with no manners at all. "Ruth," he said softly, "please come here and sit beside me."

"I want you to be here so badly that I can taste it, sweeter than the lemon drops in your pocket," Ruth whispered, squeezing her eyes closed. "But you are not and I… I am falling apart at the seams."

"Come here, my love," he whispered, taking her hands. He felt so real, his touch so firm and strong, that she wanted to believe he could really be there. "Your hands are shaking."

"I will wake up and you will be in France," she breathed, hating herself in that moment for being a weak, demanding female. "Why must you haunt my dreams so?"

The cup of tea he guided to her lips tasted more like a bitter elixir than tea. She flinched, but downed it without complaint, hoping that if it were poison, at least it might be quick. A strange warmness came over her and she fought sleep. "You drugged me," she spluttered, opening her eyes and seeing Fiona.

"Yes, I damn well did," Fiona said firmly. "You stupid goose."

When Ruth managed to open her eyes again, the tray of tea – sugar, water, tincture of opium, and the barest hint of tea, if she had to guess – and the cup of now-cold broth were on her bedside table. Her bed felt unusually warm and… _oh dear god!_ _ **Someone**_ _was in her bed with her!_ Ruth inhaled deeply and made to scream, but a hand came over her lips and a deep, sleep-grumbly voice said, "I'd really rather you not make a fuss, considering your father is ready to take me out with pistols at dawn."

She squeaked around the edges of the hand, then licked the hand, and when that didn't work, she bit down hard. Harry yelped and yanked his hand back. "Ruth, what on –"

"You're here… you're really here?" Ruth whispered.

"I am," he acknowledged with some reservation, still gingerly rubbing his offended fingers. "Do you feel any better now that you've had a bit of sleep?"

"You drugged me," she said accusingly.

"Fiona drugged you; you were flailing about like a madwoman and it was the only way to calm you down. What's happened, my love?" he asked softly, gently tugging her back down into bed and wrapping himself around her like a fat, cozy, loveable blanket.

She could not find the words; it felt as though she had no voice.

And when they finally came, it was a rush of confession.

"I think Papa and Admiral Mace are plotting against the King."


	16. Chapter 16

XVI:

* * *

4 February, 1891  
London

* * *

Ruth looked out the window with a pout on her lips. "Nanny said I could go out and play today," she whined, "but it is raining, Peter! I cannot play in the rain!"

Her elder brother, almost nine – how much older he seemed than her four years -, frowned at her and said, "Mama would not like it if you went out of doors and ruined your new dress."

Ruth heaved a sigh and kicked her little feet. "I wonder if Papa will come home soon," she said with another scowl on her lips. The weather was doing nothing for her mood; neither was being carted to and from Scotland. They had only arrived the day before in London, and she had not seen any other children when she'd alit from the carriage with Nanny. Peter stayed in London all of the time; his school was there.

"Papa is on a ship, sailing to South Africa," Peter said. "He won't be back for a very long time, Ruthie."

She inhaled very deeply, then let out a frustrated cry. "I hate being a girl!" Ruth exploded in a very unladylike manner. "I can't do nuthin'."

"I can't do anything," Peter corrected automatically. "But you can – you speak French better than I do."

She stubbed her toe on the carpet in impotent frustration. He would never understand; he was the boy, the one that everyone wanted. Peter was, well… Peter.

"What on earth is going on in here?" Mama inquired as she came into the nursery. "Ruth, love, you mustn't fidget so – you've untied your sash." She corrected the grievous error in the blue ribbon around Ruth's waist, then smiled at her. "There, my love – all better now. How are your lessons, Peter?"

He shrugged. "Same as always," Peter said quietly. "Ruth is better at them than I am."

"Mama, it is raining," Ruth complained bitterly.

"So it is, love," Mama said in her gentle, calming voice. "Why don't you come with me for a while? Peter can continue his work and you and I can read together in the library."

"Mama, will you teach me to speak Scots?" Ruth asked.

"Gaellic?" Mama asked with some surprise. "Dear heart, there's no reason –"

"I want to know," Ruth declared plainly. If she could not run freely or learn the same things as Peter, she wanted to know something that only she and Mama would know.

"All right," Mama relented after a moment. "But it will be our little secret. Papa mustn't know that I've taught you more than French."

* * *

5 October, 1916  
Mountain View Manor  
Scottish Lowlands  
15 miles from Stirling

* * *

Harry's arm tightened almost imperceptibly around her waist. "That is a rather potent and gravid charge," he said in a lightly warning tone.

She hesitated, biting her lip. "Harry, I –"

"Do you have proof?" he asked. "Or is it just a supposition?"

Ruth did not trust easily, nor freely; her trust must be earned through blood or sacrifice. But she trusted Harry with her very life and it was without guile that she murmured, "I have a kind of proof. There are a lot of things… things that do not add up correctly. Things that are at odds with how he should behave. And they are introducing a referendum to secede Scotland from the Empire in a few days' time at Holyrood."

"Ruth, how do you know that?" he asked, his fingers stilling, hot through her dress and her corset, burning straight through to her skin.

"I'm Scottish," she said with a bit of a laugh. "I am not some simpering miss, Harry – I speak and read Gaellic." She paused, the laughter dying. "My father doesn't know. It was Mama's and my secret. I was very small at the time, and Papa… frightened me very much. He was not a kind father when he was home."

"He is not exactly the picture of kindness now," Harry pointed out gruffly.

"He was terrifying when I was a girl," Ruth murmured, "and I received the brunt of it, being just a girl… and a bastard, to boot." She leaned back against him, seeking warmth, comfort, and love, as even thinking about her childhood left her cold, frightened, and morose. "I sometimes wonder… if I was even meant to survive that. Life hasn't exactly been kind."

He kissed her shoulder through the fabric of her dress. "Hush now," Harry whispered. "I cannot promise to take you away or make everything better for you… but you must know how much I care for you."

"He won't let me leave," Ruth said softly. "He thinks I know something that I do not."

"Fiona told me that he's been adamant that you stay on the grounds," he said. His voice was grim when he added, "Leave that in my hands, Ruth. I still have a few friends to call upon." Harry fell silent, then whispered, "I am so sorry about Elena. She was going to grow up to be such a delightful girl, just like her mum…"

"No," Ruth said very softly. "No, she wasn't. She was never destined for greater things. I knew she would die because she would not eat. And yet… I kept giving her milk. I kept giving her hope." She felt hollow inside, as if death would pass over her like a veil and still she would be forced to endure it. "And the other bairn was… not far along when I lost it. Large enough to have fingers and toes, but not so large as to breathe for itself." Her voice cracked and she raised a hand to her lips, attempting to hold back the tide of choking sobs that threatened to escape.

His arms tightened around her waist and he pressed his face into her back. "Ruth," Harry said very softly, "these things are not your fault. I am sorry you must endure more heartbreak and loss, but you must understand that you are not at fault for them." He gently tucked an errant strand of her hair back along her neck, and he sighed softly, his warm breath somehow making her feel both better and worse in the same moment.

"I should have done something – anything," she whimpered, weary of being strong. She didn't want to keep fighting; she wanted to sleep and maybe never awaken.

"There was nothing to be done in either case," Harry whispered, his tone gentle.

"The baby was not yours," she choked out.

"I did not for an instant believe that it was," he said, his tone slightly brusque. "You forget I know your body well. I cannot prevent nature, Ruth, no matter how much I wish to be able. I knew you were probably… in a delicate position."

She shifted, rolling over to face him. "I am grateful you've not yet sought a divorce," she whispered.

He looked at her, incredulous. "Why on bloody earth would I –"

"The child was not yours. Our son is… not yours in technicality. My daughter is not yours. My other daughter is dead. I have failed you so far as a wife and –"

"Nonsense," he said gruffly. "Do not make me take you over my knee, Ruth. You've told me numerous times that events conspired against us, out of our control completely. Truer words have never been spoken; and indeed, I would not contradict your assessment of the nature of our relationship. We have been separated for long years and we have become different people as to what we were; but you are still the Ruth that captivated my heart so long ago. And now you are mine; the difference is naught."

She exhaled shakily. "Why did you stop writing?" Ruth whispered. "I could have gotten through this so much easier if I knew that you were thinking of us, even if –"

"I have sent letters nearly every day," he said firmly. "The absence of your letters I can attribute to grief and –"

"I have sent letters every day," she murmured. She sat up abruptly, staring at him. "You mean to say you've not received anything from me?"

"Not since the letter informing me of Elena's death," he said, reaching up to caress her skin. "I thought you might be overwrought, and worried in silence."

"I thought you'd gone off me," she breathed. "That I had been wrong in placing my faith in you –"

"Never," he hissed. "I can only speculate as to where the letters have gone; knowing your father, probably into the fire."

She blinked. "Oh god," Ruth murmured. "Harry, what am I going to do? If he suspects I know about the plotting, he will do… something drastic."

"He will do no such thing," Harry assured her, his eyes flashing fire. "He can plot with Mace all he likes, the odious toad, but he will not harm a single hair on your head, love. If he does, I will visit the pain on him thriceways."

"Yes, because suffering begets suffering," she sighed. "Violence and revenge are not the answer, Harry, in any language." She plucked the hairpins from her falling hair, watching him for a reaction. "I must sound a simpleton in saying this, but my Papa has never been a man to be loved – only feared. And I have learned in my own way that to fight back is not the path of least resistance. I am only a woman. If something were to happen to you, where would I go? Where would I turn?" A tumble of plaited hair came down around her shoulders and she looked at him with gravid import. "We have suffered in silence for many years," Ruth whispered. "And we do not have to any longer." She smiled tremulously at him. "And I am hungry now."

Harry exhaled and tangled his fingers in her hair. "Thank god," he breathed, propping himself up on one elbow and drawing her down for a kiss that left them both breathing heavily. "I will go fetch some broth and bread. You stay here."

"Ring for a maid," Ruth said, reaching for the bell-pull. "They are here for a reason."

Harry shook his head and sighed. "Ruth, you must become accustomed to not living as a high-born woman of quality," he warned. "My new rank does not come with an increase in pay."

She smiled at him and merely said, "Then it is a good thing that I have learned to manage a household, sir."

* * *

Once she had eaten, Ruth felt very much more like herself. Harry was there and they had escaped the shooting party, and she was quite content to lay in his arms in her bed, letting the world pass them by. "Harry?" she murmured.

"Hmm?"

"Why did you come? I mean, I'm not ungrateful to have you here, but… shouldn't you be in France?"

"I am being recalled," he said crisply. "My exile is at an end, though my usefulness is not." He sighed. "I will not be sent back to the front."

"What?" she breathed. "I don't understand –"

"The King has decided that I have served far beyond my duty," Harry said, toying with her hair, staring at her in the way that made her wonder if he wanted to consume her. "I am to command His Majesty's personal guard."

She blinked, then all but squealed her delight. "Oh, Harry, that is wonderful!"

"Is it?" he inquired. "When you tell a man he is not fit for duty on the front line and give him instead what amounts to a desk job… is that truly wonderful, Ruth?"

"It is," she said in a firm tone, kissing him on the lips. "Harry, you have done your duty, a thousand times over – don't tell me you _want_ to go back to France?"

He blinked at her, then said, "Of course I don't bloody well want to go back. Do you take me for a fool, Ruth? A suicidal maniac, perhaps?"

She stroked his cheek and jaw, then sighed, lowering her forehead to his. "Of course not," she murmured. "I just… combat of arms is what you know best."

His hands nearly spanned her waist; she had nearly forgotten how much larger than she he seemed to be, and it was rather disconcerting when she noticed it. She pulled back to stare into his eyes: eyes which fairly glowed with golden hues, glittering dangerously in the dim lights. "It has never been what I wanted," Harry finally said. "I was the second son – I was meant to go into the clergy… then I seduced your mother and my father bought my commission and my wife."

"Surely it was not as dire as that," Ruth said softly.

"It was not dire, but I displeased my father greatly," he muttered. "I continue to displease him. He conspired with the King to have me banished, for Lord's sake."

"He is still alive?" she asked, surprised when he nodded tersely. "Then you must at least attempt to make amends – you are his son –"

A muscle in Harry's cheek twitched. She was wise enough to stop talking then. He exhaled and said, "He has sequestered himself away in Halifax since my brother died. I am nothing to him, Ruth."

"You don't know that," she murmured.

"Ruth," he warned, "please do not pursue this madness."

She relented; obviously, she was no fine judge of family. Her brother had died of influenza and pneumonia on the Continent, but at least he had been in his lover's arms. Her parents had never been civil to one another, and her mother had been madly, hopelessly in love with the King. Her own marriage had been marred by tragedy and pain, underscored by her own fickle heart. She knew nothing of stability.

"Of course, Harry," Ruth said softly. "I will defer to you in this."

He adjusted his hold on her, and he sighed. "You married an old man," he commented sadly. "I am practically in my dotage now, and what do I have to offer you?"

She inclined her chin and smirked at him. "You really have need of asking that?" she teased. "You were an old man when I fell in love with you: do you think somehow that this is something I did not know? Am I so inobservant as to miss such a thing?" She leaned in and gave him a tender kiss, running her tongue salaciously over his lower lip before retreating. "Sir Harry," she murmured breathily, "I have need of my husband."

"You are well enough…?"

"I am," she confirmed.

"Are you certain?"

"I am," she repeated, smiling as he sat up and reached for her. Now, if only they never had to part company for any length of time, she would be content.

* * *

6 October, 1916  
Mountain View Manor  
Scottish Lowlands  
15 miles from Stirling

* * *

Ruth wasn't certain what she was interrupting, but as she breezed into her father's study to inform him that the horses were ready for the hunt, the room fell dreadfully silent. She looked around the room and inhaled sharply before she dipped into a curtsey. "My lords," she greeted softly, with deference, "the mounts are ready."

It suddenly snapped back to life, men complementing her father on having such a lady for a daughter. One of the lords, a strikingly tall man with a ginger complexion and the fire-kissed hair to match, even smirked at her, winking as if she would give chase. Ruth fought the urge to sneer and sniff in disdain – if she were to do so, it would mark her forever as a member of the upper class when she took on the role of Harry's wife and hostess. It would be suicide; she needed to destroy ties to her roots and untangle herself from society's vines.

Her marriage had not been announced in polite society; as far as the world was concerned, she was still the widow of Prince George of Greece and Denmark. She was certain that her father had something to do with that, but to what end, she did not dare speculate upon.

The men trickled out of the room, until it was just her father and Mace left behind. She turned to leave, but Mace grabbed her by the arm and flung her into a chair. "Leaving so soon, Ruthie?" Mace taunted. "I am not going on the hunt, and neither is your dear Papa."

She swallowed hard and lifted her eyes to meet his. "What do you want from me?" Ruth asked very softly, rubbing her upper arm. Harry would murder the man if there was a mark on her; she prayed it would bruise.

"Why is that… horse's ass… here?" Mace spat. "Army men are not welcome in your father's house."

Ruth lifted her chin defiantly, then smirked. "I am sorry, Admiral, but I will invite whomever I see fit," she said sweetly.

Mace and her father conversed in a low tone in Gaelic; she could make out every other word, but suddenly it made sense. They thought Harry was there for them. She was in more danger than she had even known. She stood up and took three quick steps toward the door before Mace dropped her to the floor with a well-placed smack of the hand.

Ruth clutched her jaw, wincing as she tasted blood; it had been months now since she'd been beaten, but the feral nature to protect herself was writhing just below the surface.

"Why is he here?" Mace sneered. "You are a widow; if he is intent on sniffing around your skirts, then surely we must turn him away again. I hear that Australia is lacking a supply of real men now –"

She blanched; had he been one of the conspirators to send Harry away in the first place? She hung her head low against her chest, holding her breath, trying to force the pain back so she could concentrate. "Admiral Mace, Sir Harry has just been knighted," Ruth choked out softly, raising her gaze to meet her father's. "He came to celebrate his good fortune with me."

The malice on her father's face was almost enough to send her back to her knees, but Mace grabbed her by the shoulder and dragged her up from the floor. She inhaled sharply when she felt the blade of a knife pressed into her skin. "Sir Harry Pearce is a spy," Philip ground out with disgust. "Do not play me false, Ruth, or I will be forced into desperate action."

She was very aware of every breath she took, the prick of the knife, her very heartbeat. "He knows," she lied, "he knows everything – how you plan to secede from the Empire and murder the King."

Mace pressed the blade deeper into her skin, chuckling when she winced. "And how would he know anything about that, my dear?" he hissed in her ear.

She wasn't thinking; she didn't think. "Me," she growled, clawing at his arm in the same moment she went limp in his arms. She drew blood, and she knew that her blood was shed because a line of it marred the knife's edge. She sent Mace flying onto the tea table, where service had not yet been removed. And free, she raced for the door. She prayed, running for her life, and suddenly, she stopped in the great foyer and screamed, "HARRY!"

It was enough for Philip to have caught up with her; even for an old man, he was still remarkably spry and moved quickly. The gun he wielded was aimed for her head, and she raised her hands in surrender. "On your knees," Philip said, panting between words. "Your mother was a whore, and I did not raise you to follow in her footsteps," he growled. "But you've done nothing but –"

Ruth heard the shot and opened her mouth in surprise when she felt a splash of blood and brains across her face and body. Mace stood there, a wild, furious look on his face, the gun trained on her now. "Your father is a loose end," he sniffed. "As are you."

She had spent over a year praying to meet her maker; now that she was face to face with her own mortality, she was not so certain she could ever again pray for death. So she closed her eyes and prayed to a god she had forgotten to believe in.

A shot rang out and she cried out despite herself.

Mace howled like an animal. She opened her eyes and saw his pistol laying on the floor near her. She grabbed it and trained it on him, just as Fiona was aiming for another shot. Harry nearly fell down the stairs as he ran to scoop Ruth up in his arms.

They were halfway up the stairs when the next shot echoed in the foyer. Harry's face was set and determined, and she did not fight his need to shield her from the truth.

Once she was in her rooms again, he began to clean her up. He didn't say a word, just tenderly washed the blood away. Finally, he murmured, "My punishment for bedding you was a life in espionage for His Majesty's government. It is not honorable, Ruth, and I have paid the price for it."

She was shaking, the shock of what had happened beginning to settle in. "My father –"

"Your father is dead," he said gruffly, without emotion. "Admiral Mace is also dead. Fiona has done her duty, and I have done mine." Harry looked up at her and added, "If you wish to petition for a divorce…"

She bit back a hysterical noise. His hands stilled, the wet cloth pressed against her bruised and swollen jaw. "You've done your duty," Ruth whispered.

His lips were pursed together into a thin line. "And your son is now the Duke," he said gravely. "You deserve a better man than me, Ruth."

" _Your_ son," she said in earnest, "is now the Duke of Whiting. And I have known no man more deserving of my affections than you. You have saved my life twice over now, and –"

His cold, hard demeanor crumbled and he pulled her into his arms, holding her close as he wept. "I heard you scream and I thought – I thought I was too late," Harry choked out.

"I thought I would die without seeing you again," she breathed, holding him as tightly as he held her. She could not cry anymore; nor did she want to weep. "Harry, get me away from here, please. I cannot stay here another moment."

He was shaking worse than she was; she wasn't sure she could walk without stumbling. But they still had one another.


	17. Chapter 17

My apologies - this would've been done yesterday, if we hadn't lost power for 24 hours after a storm!

* * *

XVII:

* * *

15 December, 1916  
Hareswood Club  
London  
England

* * *

Harry finished his cognac with an inglorious toss of the head as he went back to his cigar. "I understand," he said with a sigh. He was tired and wanted nothing more than for Ruth and the children to arrive; his usefulness for the day was at an end. The news from the War Office that very morning had sobered him to a point of an icy fist clenching around his heart. His father arriving at the club, where Harry had been residing until Ruth came and formally reopened the Whiting estate, had pressed the point even more.

Now, he was merely tired, irritated, and could not even properly grieve in anyone's eyes.

His nephew, Louis, had been killed in action during a skirmish in Sweden. Following on the heels of his father, Benjamin, in May of 1916 in Italy, the war had dealt the Pearce family a cruel blow. But even crueler now was that Harry was the heir apparent to the estate: a title he had never wanted and never felt he should ever be deserving of.

His father, the Earl of Broadmoor, had already brought the necessary papers and had not let up on Harry about finally accepting responsibility for himself and others until Harry had signed them. And now, he was nearly shouting about the necessity for Henry to 'settle down with a nice, young war widow and sire an heir', something that simply would not do in society. Harry cringed and smoked his cigar idly, wondering if now would be the time to disabuse his father of such ridiculous notions. For one, if he were to take another woman to wife, Ruth would probably chop off his member and figure out how to make him wish he were dead. Secondly, there was always Graham: his cocaine-addled son could probably be enticed to return from America upon his death. God knew he'd never return while Harry still drew breath.

"Are you listening to me, boy?" John Pearce snapped.

"It's been a long time since I was a boy," Harry pointed out acerbically, his temper finally beginning to catch up with him. "And the urge to sow my wild oats is long gone, as well."

John sneered at him. "Don't think I don't know your reputation, Henry."

"My reputation was justly deserved when I was younger," Harry muttered, "but I'm afraid that well has run dry, father."

"The Whiting chit?" his father dismissed with an irritated wave of the hand. "She was never meant for you," he muttered in disgust. "She was always meant to marry a prince, just as she has done. And you were meant to marry a society woman, just in case of an accident of demise, but you managed to bollocks that up, now didn't you? How is Jane, by the by?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "You seem to think I would keep tabs on my ex-wife? What do you take me for? You do know that she set fire to my best saddle when I refused to grant her petition of divorce initially, do you not?"

"Can you blame her?" John spluttered into his brandy. "You shagged every bloody woman you could get your hands on – but your bloody wife. If I were her, I would have done far worse to you than set your saddle on fire."

Harry's lip curled involuntarily into a semi-smirk. "You worked with the King to have me exiled," he pointed out. "I would say that was far worse."

John raised an eyebrow. "At least you were doing something useful, for once, you reprobate."

Harry's smirk vanished and he couldn't help but sigh and roll his eyes. Proving to the world that he had settled down in his old age was going to prove impossible if he couldn't even manage to do so with his father of all people. "Father, I will not be trawling the halls of society to find a 'nice young war widow' just so the line won't die out," he finally said, running his finger along the rim of his glass. "I haven't the need to." His thoughts flickered to Ruth and he wondered if she and the children were all right, making the trip from the holding in Wales to London.

"So you're willing to just… give up on all the good we've done?" John asked furiously.

"No," Harry said, lifting his gaze to meet his irate father's. "But a man in possession of a wife cannot very well seek another," he said pointedly.

Dead silence fell between them, at odds with the noises and revelry around them. John's anger was turned up on high and he could barely speak, he looked so apoplectic. Harry had usually seen him thus since he was a small boy, breaking things to see what was inside, so it really didn't phase him. "I suppose you married below yourself," John muttered, his irritation reaching a fever pitch. "And we will have to press her suit to the matrons before she is allowed –"

"No," Harry said cautiously, "you will not have to do any such thing, father. Her connections are far better than yours." He met his father's gaze without flinching. "She is coming from Wales this evening; this is my last dinner at the Club."

John's feathers were ruffled, to say the least. "There has been no announcement in the papers – did you have the banns read at all?"

"We were married in the field in France," Harry said glumly. "I wish we could have waited for a church wedding, but it was not feasible." He took a deep breath and said, "You might as well know now so you can throw your tantrum and get over yourself. I married Ruth Evershed."

If his father had been explosively furious before, it was nothing compared to this. Harry winced at the force with which John hit the table with his fist. "NO," he declared. "It will not stand!"

"The King has given his blessing," Harry said firmly, "and there is no higher law in the land, father. I will not let you dictate to me one more time what I must do as your son. I am a man fully grown, several times over, and a father – albeit a disaster of one – and it is time for me to find my own way. I have loved Ruth and taken no one to my bed but her in over a decade. So don't you dare arrogantly accuse me of philandering and debauchery now. Her son is the new Duke of Whiting, and her daughter will light the halls when she is of an age to do so. And whether or not we produce an heir for you, we will love each other dearly." He exhaled and looked away. "I didn't care what happened to Jane: she was just someone you and mama forced me to marry. But Ruth… I would go to the ends of the earth – and I have – just to prove myself worthy of her affections. I do not deserve the care of her heart, yet she gives it to me without reservation. And I will not hear an unkind word from you to her."

John made a non-committal noise, and Harry fixed him with a glare, stunning the old man into silence, if not submission. It felt like a victory, however small; but Harry knew well enough to know that the war was not yet begun.

* * *

15 December, 1916  
Coxcomb Cottage  
Mayfair, London

* * *

Ruth was surprised that the staff had decorated for their arrival: an enormous Christmas tree sat in the main foyer, covered in glass ornaments, tinsel, and the newest electric fairy lights. Marie struggled out of her arms and ran over to peer at the lights, her curiosity on high. "Mama, they are so lovely!" she cried in French.

"English, my love," Ruth reminded her gently. "You are an English gentlewoman now."

"I am a gentlegirl," Marie corrected with the innocence of a child. She was a princess, as was her elder brother a prince, but Ruth and George had always raised them to function in British society, as Henry would come back and take his place as Duke of Whiting, and Marie would likely marry back into the aristocracy, especially now. It had always been more advantageous than attempting to crawl out of the hole George's parents had dug themselves into.

"Yes, you are," Ruth murmured. "Marie, don't touch the lights – they will burn your fingers."

Fiona and the boys came in, smiles on their faces. "It is a lovely house," Fiona said cheerfully. Since her assignment had ended, she was much more at ease and relaxed with Ruth and the children, content merely to be a companion, nanny, and much less of a spy. "But Scotland was lovely, as well – and Wales."

Ruth waved her hand dismissively. "There are many houses," she said softly. "We need not live in them all to enjoy their beauty, but we must care for the land and our tenants," she added, hoping to make the impression on her son that she needed to.

Henry looked up at her and said, "Yes, mama."

Not exactly what she was aiming for, but at least he had been listening. "Now," Ruth said, "you should all run upstairs with Fiona and change clothes for dinner."

"Why?" Wesley asked, wrinkling his nose. "I'd rather explore, wouldn't you, Henry?"

Henry paused, torn between agreeing with his best friend and upsetting his mother. "But we're dusty and dirty from the train and the motorcar ride," Henry finally said, "and I am hungry." He puffed up his chest like the master of the house would, and added, "And we have plenty of time to explore later."

Marie looked away from the tree and said, "Mama, is Mister Harry coming to see us soon?"

Ruth smiled and murmured, "Yes, he will be here later tonight."

"Oh, good," Marie said. "You've been sad – Mister Harry makes you happy."

Fiona bit her lip to keep back a chuckle. "Come on, you three," she ordered, "let's go get changed. We can explore a little on the way."

Ruth hung back and sized up the butler. He was not the same man who had been present in her youth: her recklessness with Harry had seen that man dismissed. "I am Lady Ruth Pearce," she announced softly, "His Grace's mother. I will be in charge until Henry comes of age. My husband, Sir Henry Pearce, will be deferring to me in the Whiting estates."

"I am Farrell, my lady," the man said, bowing at the waist. "Is there anything you will wish this evening?"

Ruth nodded. "His Grace takes a small glass of warm milk at bedtime. Princess Marie favors lemonade and fresh-baked biscuits. Young Wesley, my son's companion, is fond of very strong tea with just a bit of milk and sugar. At bedtime, I will require a warm, damp face towel, and a fresh basin of warm water. Mrs. Carter will see you with any needs of her own." Ruth took a deep breath. "May I request you telephone my husband's club – the Hareswood – and inform him of our arrival? I should think he would be overjoyed."

Farrell almost smiled. "Yes, my lady, as you wish."

"And after Harper has had a moment to breathe and drink some tea, will you send her up to help me dress?" Ruth inquired. "Only after she has had time to fortify herself," she warned. "The poor girl has been tossed around three trains today, and she is as weary as the rest of us. I would not care to cause her more issues. Thank you, Farrell." She gathered the longest part of her suit's traveling skirt, and pulled it up crossways over the front of her skirt, exposing her ankles and a goodly sum of calf. Not that she cared much: she dashed up the stairs, light-footed as a child.

The house had not changed since last she'd been there: the lines were still forbidding and austere, and she thought with all the frivolous notion of a woman that she should dip into her son's coffers and redecorate, make the space more inviting. It had been dark and dismal since the 1300's, this stonework cottage, and even with the age of electricity, its darkest corners had yet to be banished.

She paused outside the room that had been hers in youth, but would now be Marie's. She heard Fiona and Marie talking in low tones behind the door, and she smiled slightly, then moved on. Henry, of course, would be in the master suite – with Wesley nestled in what was meant to be a wife's bedroom attached to the main bedroom. She had no qualms about the boys together, thus: Henry had always found it hard to give children his own age any kind of trust, so that he found such a confidant in young Wesley, she was pleased. Fiona would be taking the Angel Suite, a guest suite of gentle beauty: whitewashed walls, white lace, and deep mahogany furniture.

Ruth paused at the other guest suite, where she and Harry would reside. It was where her father had kept his (scandalously male) lovers after her mother's death. The room was decorated quite as a den of iniquity – crimson velvet, dark furniture, plush carpets – and she was unsure of living there. But she hadn't much of a choice: the other guest rooms would not do to accommodate a married couple. She sighed and pushed open the door, surprising the footman who was settling in her luggage. "Hello, m'lady," he greeted. "I'll be leaving now." He scurried away without inquiring as to whether or not she needed anything, and Ruth felt quite befuddled.

Without Harper's assistance, Ruth hung up her meager apparel in the wardrobe and reminded herself to talk to Harry about seeing the modiste. She was so very tired of blacks, greys, and mauve. Her heart was heavy with grief, but she would rather not mourn her father more than her own children. No one in society tolerated the old Duke of Whiting, and she saw no reason why she should mourn such a man shunned by his peers. Not when he had threatened her life with no remorse and no care at all.

When Harper finally came in, Ruth was sitting on the edge of the bed, feet dangling, in her underpinnings. "Sorry, m'lady," Harper said quickly. "I had a scone w'me tea."

"I told Farrell not to interrupt your tea," Ruth said gently. "I am quite all right on my own, Harper. Will you assist me in dressing for dinner?"

Harper helped her to dress and carefully brushed out her hair and restyled it. "M'lady, will your husband be joining us? Only will we need to be dressing you in the en suite with himself needing a valet?"

"Sir Harry doesn't keep a valet," Ruth said.

Harper's eyes widened. "What kind of a gentleman don't keep a valet, m'lady?" she asked in a scandalized tone.

"The type of gentleman who has served His Majesty faithfully for many years," Ruth said in a warning tone. "You needn't worry about dressing me in front of Sir Harry, either. It is nothing he hasn't already seen – and he is quite adept at removing my clothes."

Harper's face flushed scarlet. "M'lady, t'ain't proper," she spluttered.

"Maybe not," Ruth agreed, a light blush on her cheeks, "but times change, and so do people. Sir Harry may do as he wishes."

"But if people find out –"

"I do not care about other people's opinions of me," Ruth snapped. "And neither must you." She reached up and patted a stray pouf of hair back into place. "We do not know how this war will end, nor how our fortunes may be turned by then. I will worry about opinions then, not now." She stood up from the vanity and pulled on her gloves. "Thank you for your assistance, Harper. You will not be needed tonight to ready me for bed, as Sir Harry will be here then. Please rest well this evening."

Ruth descended to the dining room for supper, and was pleasantly surprised to see even Marie propped up at the table on a stack of books. The children were politely waiting for her, and Fiona praised, "Well done."

Ruth sat down and rang the bell for the soup course.

They were nearly through the main course – a rack of lamb roasted gently and topped with mint – when the door to the dining room burst open. Ruth's eyes rose to meet Harry's, and Marie squealed in delight, flinging herself out of her chair and rushing to throw herself into Harry's arms. "Hello, Mister Harry! May I have a lemon drop?" she pleaded, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Harry laughed. "After dinner," he promised.

Ruth could not help but notice Henry glaring at Harry, and she felt a pang of guilt. She was not trying to replace George with Harry; Henry had loved George with the devotion of a son groomed to do so. And now she could not expect him to understand the complexity of what had happened because of just that. Just as she had struggled with the idea of being the King's beget, and just as others would continue to struggle with their family secrets. But surely her son must see that she was happy with Harry, and she had never really been happy with George – she had merely floated through life.

Harry helped Marie back into her seat, then he strode to the foot of the table where Ruth was seated – as the mother of the Duke, she was accorded second best seating – and leaned down to kiss her gently upon the lips. "Hello, my dear," he said softly. "I have missed you something dreadfully."

She smiled up at him and murmured, "And I you. Have you eaten?"

"I took dinner at the club," he said dismissively. "But I will adjourn to the smoking room for a drink and wait for your dinner to end."

Ruth hesitated; there was something different about him. Not something physical, but something that was weighing heavy on him. His eyes did not sparkle with life like they usually did; she instantly began to worry. "Harry –"

"We will talk later," he said, bussing her again. "Mrs. Carter," he said, bowing slightly. "Children." And then he retreated.

Fiona glanced over at Ruth with a raised brow. _What on earth?_ She seemed to be saying.

If only Ruth knew, then she might not have the same dazed confusion written on her face – or her heart.


	18. Chapter 18

XVIII:

* * *

15 December, 1916  
Coxcomb Cottage  
Mayfair, London

* * *

Harry barely glanced up from his whiskey when Ruth came into the smoking room. She watched him for a long moment, knowing that he would be aware of her arrival – since she had done nothing to silence her footsteps – then murmured, "I've sent Fiona and the children upstairs to get ready for bed."

A muscle in his face twitched and Harry said, "You're probably the only person alive to order Fiona around now…"

"She's good for Henry and Marie," Ruth said softly. "Thank you for employing her and sending her, even if she was meant to be spying on my father's household."

He looked up at her then, his face unreadable. "Ruth… we need to talk," he finally said.

She sat down primly in one of the other arm chairs, just barely out of his reach, and said, "There have never been words more apt to chill the blood of anyone alive than those." Her heart had sped up anxiously, afraid to hear the words of supposed import. "Whatever is the matter, dearest?"

Harry exhaled a deep breath. "My nephew died."

"I'm sorry," she said without even thinking.

"So am I," he agreed. "Because now, I am forced by circumstances to be hooked on my father's leash again." He lifted his glass with a sarcastic smile. "Viscount Harley, at your service, my lady. You'll have to get new calling cards printed immediately if you want to receive or make calls –"

"We are still in mourning," Ruth reminded him, "and more so now with your nephew gone." It took her a moment to register and realize the importance of what he was saying. She reached over and held his hand, their simple silver wedding bands catching the light from the table lamp. "Harry, I love you – not some bloody title you may or may not have. It may have escaped your notice, but the world around us is changing: titles may not be important when everything rights itself again."

"Your pragmatism is sobering," he commented dryly. "But in the meanwhile, I have been ordered that I am to produce an heir, post haste."

There it was: the rub that hurt her far more than it did him. Ruth's stomach sank and she felt ill, clammy and flushed at the same time, distress diffusing through her like a gas bomb. "Of course," she murmured, "as is generally expected."

"He ordered me to find a nice war widow and marry her," Harry grumbled in disgust, nursing the last of his scotch. "I told him I was already married, and he had not very kind things to say about my wife being you." He fixed his gaze on her and she knew with a sinking feeling why he'd looked so beaten down and upset earlier. He had gone to war with his father now, attempting to justify keeping her – when the only reason to keep her was to provide a child for the estate.

The mercenary motivation made her furious: the entire world could not be at odds with them. It did not seem possible, nor even probable, but at least from outward appearances, it was just that way.

She licked her lips and whispered, "Do you love me enough to continue fighting this battle every time we are seen together or claim amnesty by our marriage?"

His eyes flickered back to life, anger flashing within them fast as brushfire in the desert. "Do not even ask that question," Harry barked. "The world will adapt. We have done nothing wrong in seeking love, my Ruth. And yes, I do love you; more than you will ever understand." His knuckles went white as he gripped the glass with his fingertips. "My father's expectation of an heir at my age is ridiculous. And I will not force you to do anything that will damage your health further." His fingers tightened around hers in a grip that almost made her wince. "Mentally or physically," Harry added quickly. "The losses you have suffered weigh heavy upon your mind and heart; I do not wish to add to them."

She smiled tightly, not wanting him to see how deeply his words touched her. "I will survive, Harry," she murmured. "I always do."

His frown deepened and he stood up, pulling her with him. He wrapped his arms around her and whispered, "Surviving isn't enough anymore, Ruth. Neither of us can, nor should we, pretend that it is enough."

She hesitated, then leaned into his embrace, relishing the smell of smoke on his jacket, the pomade he used on his – now very sparse – hair, the cologne he'd splashed on in the morning that had worn away to almost nothing. She closed her eyes and held on for dear life; they had been apart for far too long voluntarily. Her heartbeat sped up when he gently rubbed her back, and she exhaled a tired sigh into his shoulder.

A sudden thought occurred to Ruth, and she asked, "Are you still in espionage?"

His hand stilled, his fingers resting on the small of her back. "At the moment, I am at His Majesty's beck and call," Harry said very softly. "I do what he asks of me. For now, it is merely to command the Palace Guards. Later, who knows?"

She inhaled deeply and nodded. "I see," she replied.

"You do know I would not do anything to hurt you intentionally, don't you, Ruth?" he said. "Your father –"

"He wasn't my father," she said in a dull tone. "He was a monster." She lifted her head from his lapel and murmured, "I'm going to bed – will you come up with me?" It was an invitation, soft and gentle, a bit hesitant, filled with quiet hope and a firm love.

He leaned in and kissed her; she was so glad of the simple contact that she moaned softly, digging her fingertips into his forearm. "I will see to the locks and then I will be up," Harry promised. "I shouldn't startle your maid again."

Ruth laughed and kissed him again: it was no secret that they had scandalized poor Harper more than once or twice. The poor young lady was going to think them horribly improper, but at least any gossip shared with other houses would be of a loving husband and wife rather than something sleazy, tawdry, or likewise scandalous. "You are a very naughty man, Harry," Ruth said between giggling kisses.

He abruptly became serious again. "You do know that I love you, don't you, Ruth?" Harry asked. "And that I don't intend to hurt you."

She sobered and reached up to stroke the short curly hair at the nape of his neck. "Yes," Ruth agreed very softly. "I've missed you."

He exhaled and said, "And I you… more than I can ever explain." After a long pause, intensely staring into her eyes, he finally broke. "I fell in love with you the moment you stumbled at the Palace and everyone else wrote you off. You collected yourself and went to the wall and did not envy the others their right to dance and make merry."

"I rather did envy them," Ruth admitted. "It has always been difficult for me to admit failure."

"You have not failed," Harry whispered gently, "you've just taken the long way round to success."

"I may fail at giving you an heir," she reminded him bleakly, the dark emotion she associated with her personal failures beginning to prickle around the edges.

"I have a son," he reminded her gruffly. "I would rather he not inherit, and so would my father, but if that is what God wills, so be it." He stroked her cheek and said, "I will not lose you over something so trivial. You are the one thing that matters to me now, Ruth."

She swallowed hard; a woman's duty was to provide children for her husband and to allow him his right to dominate her in the marriage bed. She enjoyed freedom within those confines, but anything Harry demanded as his right was his legally. George had been understanding, compassionate, but he had not hesitated to press upon her that she had basically signed a contract that she was _his_. It still smarted, and she actively feared what might happen if Harry pulled the noose closed around her throat: she had given him her heart so freely that she thought she might break. "It isn't trivial if it is what you want," Ruth exhaled softly.

"All that I want is for you to be happy," he whispered against the shell of her ear. After a moment, he murmured, "I will come to bed with you, my Ruth."

Her heart fluttered shakily, knowing he would want her body; but she knew some of his anger and pain from their separation still lingered, and it came out during their passions unbidden. She wondered if he ever felt close to the edge of breaking – he was always so composed, so coolly assured that she did not think it was possible. Pushing her misgivings aside, she said, "Then come with me, dear." She slipped her hand into his and led the way, hoping against all hope that he did not realize she was so close to falling apart.

* * *

3 February, 1912  
Chateau Antoinette  
France

* * *

George was patient, watching from the doorway as Ruth finished her nightly toilette. Her maid was already gone, having worked her hair into a long braid that fell nearly to her ankles and having helped her out of her corset and into fresh drawers and a delicate nightdress made of silk. It did nothing against the frightful cold, but with the master of the house due to join her for his pleasure, Ruth knew they would be generating enough heat that it did not matter.

Everything in their lives was planned for them: where they would go, who they would visit (as poorly connected relatives, mind), how they would produce another child to rival Henry with his cherubic sweetness and easy smile. Even the days that George would visit her bed were planned in some way or another. She didn't mind that he had a maid that he was particularly fond of, nor that she had caught them in a compromising position more than once.

She did not love him; not in that manner, anyway. He was kind to her, he did not ask any more than she was willing to give, and he adored Henry as his own son and heir. But her love was tied away in a tiny bleak black box in the back of her mind, terrible in its power and so tempting in its design. She could not open Pandora's box and let loose the devil, so she did not love him in any way more than she must to keep their marriage alive.

"How are you feeling tonight?" he asked quietly as she rubbed perfumed lotion into her skin.

"As well as can be expected," Ruth replied in an equally hushed tone. She was nearly five months along and the intense sickness at the smell of any kind of food had finally died down to a niggling whisper. As long as she did not overindulge, she was all right. "I feel very tired tonight, and my back is sore, but that is probably the bairn getting larger," she admitted.

"Do you want me to –"

"No," Ruth said softly, "I don't want you to leave." She had been lonely and maudlin, thinking of Harry, the last few days and she needed – no, craved – physical contact. She needed something she could not describe for fear of sounding mad beyond belief.

George came over and gently rubbed her shoulders until her head lolled back against his abdomen. "Ruth," he said very softly, "have I ever told you about Marie?"

"No, you haven't," she whispered. "Not any more than I've told you about Harry."

"We were in love," he said abruptly, "or so I thought. So she said. But then she met my brother, and it was obvious that I had only been a hook." His voice was suffused with hurt, with actual pain that seemed as much physical as heartache. "She married him and cast me aside."

Ruth flinched. "I fell in love with a man who touched my soul," she whispered. "He loved my intelligence as much as he loved me." To protect herself, she added, "We would have… destroyed one another. He is so much older than I am. It would have been a disaster." Her heart ached with the very thought, but the lies fell from her lips easily. Protect Pandora's Box at all costs.

Save yourself.

She stood up and kissed George, the familiar scent of him spurring her on. She could not have her fondest desire, so she survived and thrived on making do. And she needed him; she needed something desperately that she could not deny.

Survive. Thrive. Protect yourself. Save yourself.

It wasn't until much later, deep in the night, that she gave in to her disgust and despair, a single tear escaping her lids and streaking down her cheek.

She was nothing better than a slave bought and sold into a different kind of shackles.

And even though George cared for her, and she for him, she could not go on just surviving for much longer. She might just snap.

* * *

15 December, 1916  
Coxcomb Cottage  
Mayfair, London

* * *

Ruth jerked away from Harry, shame on her face as she backed away from him. His words echoed around her mind, "You are so thin… I could hurt you." He didn't want her, then, and she was a fool to ever believe she had been anything to him but a warm body in his bed.

What a fool she was! Only now, she had opened Pandora's Box and she stood poised at the edge of her own doom. A doom of her making.

She opened her mouth to tell him to go away if he did not want her, but the only sound that came out was a wounded, strangled sobbing noise – a noise like an animal.

Polite, gently-born women did not behave like animals.

Her shame intensified, cheeks burning fire, eyes swimming with tears. She had opened herself to this pain and it was her own fault.

The pads of his thumbs were rough with the callouses of a man who worked alongside his men rather than just giving orders. They snagged against the delicate skin beneath her eyes as he brushed away her tears. "Ruth," he whispered, "don't cry, love… please don't."

"I _need_ you," she exhaled brokenly, "but you do not want me."

Harry's eyes widened with surprise. "What?" he said.

"You just said –"

"I meant to say that I might crush you," he interjected. "Not that I don't want you – what an absurd idea, Ruth." He gently flicked the tip of her nose with his index finger as if she were an errant child. "I need you, too," he added, his hazel eyes flickering, smoldering with a fire she knew all too well. It mirrored the fire she kept suppressed within herself; she still didn't trust herself to give him any kind of control.

She swallowed hard, flinching when he traced the veins in her neck with his tongue. She wanted to shy away, to tell him that no one had touched her that way since… since she was a girl, since they had spent two weeks' worth of nights seeking pleasure and making plans. She hadn't allowed George to bring her pleasure, only allowed him to seek his own. And she had not found any pleasure at the hands of the German. Harry made her forget herself.

Another source of shame.

She could not control her response to him, though she had tried against all reason and all sense to do so.

"Ruth." It was a single word, searching, small, pained. A question and an answer wrapped together.

She was not that girl anymore. She had suffered. She had survived. She was changed by everything, and now she felt that all she had left was her iron control and force of will – and he was eroding the wall that encircled her heart.

"Harry." Her response was hesitant, frightened, reed-thin and raspy, a plea for salvation and a terror-filled begging for damnation all at once.

He reached up and pulled out her haircomb, allowing her hair to tumble down her back in its long single braid. "I won't hurt you," he promised. "Because I love you."

She shivered, her nakedness rushing back to her in a flash. He had delighted in undressing her, and she in undressing him, but once they were skin to skin… everything had changed. The panic had set in and she had been unable to control herself.

"I love you," she whispered.

"Then let me show you how I've missed you," he said in a gentle tone, kissing her neck and hovering, waiting for her acquiescence or denial.

She closed her eyes, feeling the final wall was under siege. Before she could stop herself, she nodded, and felt his lips smiling against her skin. Since their marriage, they had made love – but not like before. Never like before. It was more the lovemaking of strangers, disconnected and mechanical.

But she knew tonight would be different, and it terrified her. He would find her lacking and cast her aside, and she could not survive that. She didn't have the strength.

"Ruth," he whispered, "I don't want to hurt you, love."

She inhaled and opened her eyes, then whispered, "You don't intend to hurt me, but it seems as though that's all you've ever done."

He recoiled as if she'd slapped him, then he made a small noise of distress.

Guilt coiled inside her belly; she had injured him just as if she had slapped him. "Harry, I –"

"No, you're… you're right," he said, his voice dropping sullenly. "I have hurt you."

"You've made me feel things I didn't think were possible," she whispered, reaching up to stroke his cheek. "My heart broke for want of you and now that you're here… I'm terrified I'll lose you again. That you won't… that you'll wake up and… and you won't…"

"Won't what?" he asked softly.

"I'm scared that you'll wake up one morning and realize you made a mistake," she exhaled in a rush. "And I don't know what will happen when that occurs."

"My only mistake was in not making an honest woman of you much sooner," he said softly. "Ruth… I won't change my mind because I cannot change my heart."

"You don't understand," she protested.

"Do not presume to tell me I don't understand," he said, reaching up and running his fingers through her bound hair. "I lost you just as much as you lost me, Ruth."

"You were a dream," she whispered brokenly, tears rising unbidden, choking her. "You were something I could never have but I wanted so badly I could break from the need. And now… I've got you again and I haven't got any idea what comes next. I don't know. And I'm scared."

He licked his lips, his eyes filled with tears as well. "Oh, Ruth," he whispered.

"Don't mock me," she breathed.

"I wouldn't," he assured her gently. He tangled his fingers in her hair and drew her closer for a tender kiss. "We'll be frightened together," Harry said softly, pulling back to stare her in the eyes. "I've got no earthly idea what you want with an aging wreck like me –"

"You're my Harry," Ruth murmured. "Isn't that enough?"

He blinked, a tear rushing down his cheek. "And you are my Ruth," he said earnestly. "It is enough. It is enough just to wish to be together and happy."

She leaned into him and closed her eyes. There was nowhere she wanted more to be than in his arms, settling down to sleep. Marital intimacy could wait; this emotional breakwater could not. He held her, whispering about his travels and his hopes and dreams, and she merely listened, the sound of his voice lulling her to sleep. And just as she nodded off, he whispered, "I love you, my Ruth."


	19. Chapter 19

XIX:

16 December, 1916  
Coxcomb Cottage  
Mayfair, London

The sun wasn't yet up when Ruth startled awake. She listened, her heart hammering in her ears, for the source of the noise that had woken her, then relaxed slightly when Harry's rough breathing smoothed again. She snuggled back up against him and closed her eyes again, trying to lull herself back to a sense of calmness and security.

Sleep was nearly impossible. Her thoughts ran in circles, in directions she could not fathom going, and it never ceased long enough for her to be comfortable enough to rest. The few hours she'd just had were the most sleep she had gotten since they'd left France. It was difficult to admit to failings and failure, but Ruth felt compelled to berate herself silently about her nocturnal habits.

Even as a child, she had found it difficult to sleep; and that was far before war and torture had broken her. The nights she had spent in Harry's arms had been blissful and she had been in her element: the queen of the night and queen of his heart.

Now… now, she lay awake, praying for exhaustion to set in enough that she could collapse.

"I know you're awake," Harry mumbled in the darkness, pulling her closer beneath the blankets. "You're thinking too loudly."

"I'm not thinking at all," she protested.

"You are," he accused, inhaling deeply, then pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "And I should be getting up soon anyway. Duty calls."

"Duty always calls," Ruth grumbled, pressing her face into his chest so the words were muffled. "I'll spend my day answering missives from around the estate and attempting to decide what must be done for Christmas gifts." She glanced up at him in the darkness, and exhaled a sigh. "I am attempting to be frugal since I cannot write off every gift to the estate."

"Silly woman," Harry said gruffly, "charge the gifts to my account at the bank. The King made all of my back pay available immediately upon my return to London." He kissed the tip of her nose, making her shiver. "And my bloody father has given me an allowance." He snorted indelicately. "Imagine, a man of my age, receiving an allowance."

She smiled wanly. "Harry, there will come a day when we cannot live on Henry's gratitude," she reminded him gently. "We will need a place to live."

"And there will be enough time to plan for that," he said wryly. "Meanwhile, spend what you need to spend. I know you are not frivolous for the sake of it. And new calling cards cannot be avoided."

"I want to find a doll for Marie," Ruth said softly. "And a model aeroplane for Henry – he was fascinated with the aeroplanes flying overhead in France."

"And young Wesley wishes a new football," Harry said sagely. "Fiona has covered the cricket bat."

Ruth smiled and murmured, "Then there becomes the issue of what to buy for you –"

"I don't need anything," Harry sighed. "You being here is more than enough."

She gently stroked his side, listening to his breath hitch as she hit ticklish patches of skin. "You require a new smoking jacket," she murmured. "The one you have –"

"Is the same one I've kept since I met you," he interjected.

"Well, it's time for a new one," she said with a smile. "A new start for a new life."

"What if I want to keep the old one?" he grumbled, digging his fingers into her buttocks, pulling her closer.

"It can hang in the wardrobe," she murmured, laughing a little at the expression on his face. She turned at the torso and reached over to tug on the lamp pull, bathing the room in electric light.

He was scowling. "I'm beginning to remember how it is to keep a wife," Harry muttered.

"You really want to keep that ratty old thing?" she asked in disbelief.

"It reminds me of you," he said simply. "When you came to my doorstep and threw yourself at me."

"I did not throw myself at you!" Ruth cried indignantly.

He raised an eyebrow and gave her a pointed look. "You, madam, needed schooling in how to properly kiss a gentleman."

"You are no gentleman," she pointed out, raising her brow defensively. "You, sir, are a reformed rake."

"Emphasis on 'reformed'," he said with a gleeful smirk. "Have I told you this morning, m'lady, how beautiful you are?"

"You're already in my bed," she scolded. "You don't need to flatter me, Harry."

"It isn't flattery if it is the truth," he said softly. He gave her a gentle kiss that quickly became ever so much more. "Mmm, someone taught you how to kiss," he exhaled.

"Yes," she agreed with a smile. "A semi-reformed rake."

His eyes twinkled with mischievous pride. "Ah, well… maybe I should thank this semi-reformed rake…"

"No, I do believe I should thank him," Ruth replied, her voice breathless.

His eyes held so much amusement that she felt exposed; she was naked, after all. "My dearest lady," he said in a low tone, "believe me – the pleasure has always been mine."

She bit her lip, worrying it anxiously though she knew better than to be nervous. He kissed her gently, freeing her lower lip from her teeth's grasp, and deepened the kiss. She felt it all the way into her toes when his tongue slid against hers; oh, but the things he did to her! They came up for air, and she panted, "Don't you need to be off to your duty?"

He chuckled. "I have time."

"We need to talk about… not prevention, precisely, but –"

"Ruth," he said softly, "there are many things we can do that won't cause conception."

"I know that," she muttered. "I just… in case of –"

"Shh," he whispered, gently kissing her lips. "I don't want you to worry your lovely head about anything this morning."

"I'm not worrying, I'm trying to be practical and –"

"Pragmatic?"

She bit her lip again. "Yes."

"Ever a realist, my Ruth," Harry said with an amused little smile. "But I do think you should relax and allow me the chance to show you that I do adore you, my love."

"You're the only person who has really cared what I think or feel," Ruth said very quietly.

"There are so many things wrong with that," Harry said, his tone equally soft and full of tenderness. "You are a beautiful, brilliant woman, and you deserve so much more than you've received in this life, Ruth. I'm maybe not the best man to love you, but I never want you to feel as though you are less than you are." He stroked her face with his fingertips and sighed. "I don't deserve your love, but I am striving to earn it."

"Tell me about Africa," Ruth murmured. "I wanted so badly to go and meet you there…"

He smiled sadly. "That part of my life is over, Ruth. I am not proud of the life I've led in service to the King."

"I'm not asking for you to tell me things that you shouldn't," she sighed softly. "Did you see a lion?"

"I saw prides of lions," he said, his amused little smile returning. "And our boat was nearly destroyed by a herd of hippopotamus at one juncture…" The smile grew. "I had a parrot at one point."

"Did you?" she exclaimed. "George and I received an African Grey as a wedding gift from one of his relatives… I taught it to speak in French, English, and German. Her name was Ruby."

"Was?" Harry questioned.

"She's still in France," Ruth said softly. "The Commandant taught her vile things to say to anyone who would listen." She closed her eyes, the stinging taunts of her favorite pet still ringing in her ears. "We left the dogs behind, as well. God knows if they will suffer."

"Oh, love," he sighed. "I am so sorry –"

She shook her head sharply, then said, "No. I cannot be tied to what I have left behind. Not when I have so much before me."

"Ruth," he whispered, "I am sorry –"

She nodded and opened her eyes, looking up into his eyes, seeing all of her emotions reflected back at her. "Don't be," she murmured. "If we don't adapt to change, we die." She forced a smile, then said, "And today is not a good day to die."

"It's never a good day to die," Harry replied. "Did I tell you last night how happy I am to see you?"

"I think you did," she murmured.

"I didn't show you," he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Enough being maudlin: let's have a bit of fun before I have to shove off. They're installing the new Ambassador to Japan today and I want to have something far better to think about than his bloody hairpiece."

"You know the man?"

Harry's lip curled. "I know of him. He's a pompous, arrogant prat who seems to think he got the best prize at the fair because he married my ex-wife."

Ruth blinked: that was not what she'd expected to hear. "Oh," she said softly.

"What no one realizes is… if Jane and I hadn't divorced, I wouldn't have met you. And if I'd've not met you… I would be a very different man."

"You flatter me too much with your praise," Ruth breathed. "Always and forever the silver-tongued devil, you are, Harry."

His full lips pouted deliciously when he was consternated; Ruth took the chance to kiss him, silencing any words he might have spoken. There was just something about him that made her tingle in places she had attempted for so long to keep hidden. There was nothing tender in their kisses: the urgency rose alarmingly like the tide, threatening to drown them.

"Am I the devil, then?" Harry whispered huskily when they broke apart, gasping for breath.

"My devil," she moaned softly, moving his hands to cup her breasts. "You've known so many women, I don't know what you see in me."

"Everything," he confessed earnestly, honestly.

"Oh, you are daft," she laughed. "So sweet and so utterly daft."

He leaned back in and kissed her, plundering her mouth and opening her to even more delicious want. "Mmm, who's daft?" he inquired with a smirk.

"We both are," she breathed, relaxing and letting him do as he wanted. It wasn't long before she was trembling at the touch of his mouth on her most intimate parts, and her body was all but out of her control. Everything he did felt like the most unbearable pleasure; she had been starved for affection, denying her own wants and needs for so long that she could not fathom them even now.

Her body bucked and she cried out low in the back of her throat as the world shattered and her heart hammered a runaway beat. And when she could breathe again, Harry was looking up at her with so much love on his face that she felt ashamed. How could he love her so much after everything she had done?

"Ruth," he said softly, "you are beautiful. So beautiful."

She wanted to believe him; it was just so impossible, such an impossibility, to fathom that of all the women he had bedded, she had been the one to affect him so. "I'm not," Ruth protested.

"Shush," he scolded. "You do not know your own worth."

She swallowed her pride and said, "Nevermind me – you've not…"

"I told you the pleasure was all mine," he said gruffly. "Watching you come is –"

She felt her cheeks flush, but whether from mortification or something else altogether, she wasn't certain. "Harry, please," she protested. "Just… do what you want."

He balanced himself on his elbows, hovering over her pelvis, and said, "Do you really think I respect you so little as to take my own pleasure before you've had yours? Do you not remember –"

She inhaled sharply. "Of course I remember. I remember everything, Harry, and it's killed me a little bit more every time my husband touched me – or… or when the German…"

His head fell forward, resting against her belly. He pressed the softest of kisses to her abdomen, then retreated. "I wasn't thinking," Harry said in a gentle far away tone. "You've suffered major trauma recently and here I am, just… expecting things to progress."

She was screaming inside, her heart swearing and shouting and begging to be let loose. But she held everything in check, breathed a sigh of relief when he left the bed, and tried not to think too much when she felt so empty and alone. "I am sorry, Harry –"

He waved his hand dismissively as he went in search of his dressing gown. She tried very hard not to take all of him in as he padded away. "Ruth, if anyone should be sorry, it is me," he said quietly. "Go back to sleep. I'll see you tonight."

 _Why did it hurt so damnably much to watch him leave?_

She was too much of a coward to stop him, to try to explain herself, so instead, she sat naked in the middle of the bed until the sun rose and Harper came in to help her dress. She was uncomfortably numb everywhere but her heart, which felt like it was ripping in two.

And Ruth had no earthly idea how to set anything right again.


End file.
